


The Journey

by tiger_moran



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Angst, Arguing, Aromantic Character, Asexual Character, Awkward Conversations, Bisexual Character, Caring, Companionship, Conversations, Criminal husbands, Cuddling & Snuggling, Declarations Of Love, Established Relationship, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Holding Hands, Honeymoon, Insecurity, Kissing, Love, M/M, Mentions of Sex, Nightmares, No Sex, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Panic Attacks, Reichenbach Falls, Rings, Sleeping Together, Travel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2014-12-04
Packaged: 2018-02-25 19:24:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 24,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2633417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tiger_moran/pseuds/tiger_moran
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Close to a year after the professor's return from the dead, Moriarty and Moran travel around Europe together, but a journey into their past could be the making or the breaking of their relationship.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This was inspired by the prompt from waddiwasi7: Moran and Moriarty travelling together (honeymoon)

    He watches the professor fall into the water, vanishing into the mist of spray, and knows there is not one damned thing he can do to save him. All the times he tried to protect his master, his lover, his _world_ , and yet he cannot save him now. Grief and rage form a weight in his chest, both fighting for dominance, both trying to bubble up and out of him and eclipse all reason as he screams out,

_“James!”_

   Moran wakes up with a start, his face wet with the tears he could never shed back then, body slick with terror-sweat, still with his chest feeling tight and heavy. Did he call out in this world or only in the dream this time? All those times he slept alone in an otherwise empty bed night after night, dreaming this same dream, he had no way to tell often if he’d cried out for real. If he did and if he ever disturbed anyone else with his ravings then it would only take the briefest look at his gaunt face, at the shadows under his eyes, at the thirst for vengeance that was written across his features to tell them it was best to hold their tongue.

     “Shhhh, shhh, Sebastian.” Moriarty does not ask - does not need to ask any more - if this was the same dream (once Moran dreamt of war, of the men he could not save, but not now). He only puts a warm, strong hand against Moran’s back, stroking him, moving it upwards to rub his knuckles between Moran’s shoulders.

     By degrees Moran stops trembling and gets his breathing rate under control. Only then can he turn in the bed to face his companion. “Professor.”

     “It’s all right. I’m here.” Moriarty slides his hand down Moran’s back and tugs him closer.

     Moran buries his face against the professor’s shoulder, nuzzling into him, into his warmth, his familiar scent, into his solidity.

     These dreams had never really gone away, never ceasing entirely, but they had become far less frequent. Perhaps it was glaringly obvious though that coming here would set them off with full intensity again, causing them to occur once more every time Moran slept. Was this wise, Moriarty wonders, travelling to Switzerland? This trip overseas had been a somewhat spontaneous affair, dreamed up whilst sitting idly by the fire one night. No doubt Moran would have preferred to travel in Europe during the late spring or summer and not this early in the year, but where the professor goes Moran follows. He had hardly objected when Moriarty proposed that they went on a journey, only asking where the professor wished to go. _“Into the past, my dear Moran,”_ Moriarty had answered, perhaps rather too glibly.

     They both have their demons, the ghosts that haunt them, and perhaps confronting some of those demons and ghosts head on is the only way to lay them to rest. On the other hand though perhaps confronting those demons will only make things irrevocably worse.

    The professor’s own sleep seems to be reassuringly blank and devoid of nightmares, perhaps because he remembers almost nothing of his fall; of his injuries. Of course there was pain later – there still is, in broken bones that have set with a slight twist to them which cause him to walk with a limp and all ache abominably in cold or damp weather. But there were drugs then that left him floating beyond the pain often, aware of it but only on some distant level, as if it belonged to someone else and perhaps did, in a way, seeing as for so long he could not even remember his own name, much less the name of that fierce blue-eyed man he saw in his dreams.

     Of course his memory began to return but the doctors tell him he will probably never be able to recall the fall itself, which is likely a blessing in disguise, much as it irritates Moriarty not to truly know first hand what occurred to him. What he recalls with the greatest clarity then is not the physical injuries but the sensation in his chest that managed to feel simultaneously heavy and empty when he finally remembered the name Sebastian Moran, and realised that Moran was not with him; worse, that his loyal, doggedly faithful colonel mistakenly believed him to be dead.

     Insofar as Moriarty has a heart to break, it broke when he saw Moran next, no longer his proud tiger but that dejected, defeated man on trial for the murder of the Honourable Ronald Adair. Half-mad with grief, he had failed in killing Sherlock Holmes and no longer cared whether he lived or hanged. Under such circumstances Moriarty’s seeming resurrection from the dead three years after the fact was not going to be something he took well. Achieving a not guilty verdict because of a total lack of any real evidence was only the beginning of his – _their_ – long road to recovery.

     Now that road has led them here, to Switzerland, to the village of Meiringen, to the very same hotel where they – and the wretched Holmes and his faithful Boswell - stayed that fateful May.

     The landlord, Peter Steiler the elder, had greeted them this time with his excellent English, treating them like old friends, which in some manner of speaking they are. The hotel is clean and comfortable and well-furnished, their meals excellent. The weather too is fine even this early in the spring. Though it remains cold there are blue skies with only the occasional wisp of cloud and the sun beams down on the buildings of the village and on the slopes still thick with snow but where here and there grass peeks through, making everything seem vivacious and bright and glistening. It might have been a very pleasant holiday under other circumstances, despite the cold, but both the professor and the colonel feel that weight hanging over them, the shadow of the falls of Reichenbach oppressing them. This morning both of them know they must confront it in the hopes of negating that weight and being finally able to fully move on with their lives.

     “I am alive, Moran,” Moriarty tells his lover now. “Whether by the grace of a deity I do not happen to believe in, or by a stroke of that queer and elusive thing called luck, I am alive.”

     “I know.” Moran lifts his head slightly. “I know that. Doesn’t stop me dreaming though.” He wraps his arms around the professor and finds that scar – one of many – down his back where he had been gashed by a rock in the water, mercifully not one of the largest of the rocks which would have dashed him quite to pieces, but still amongst all the foaming, bubbling water that likely saved the professor’s life in cushioning his fall there were plenty of smaller stones that did him mischief. It is a tangible reminder of how close he came to losing Moriarty for good and it makes him bury his face against the professor’s shoulder once more and let out a sobbing sigh.

     Moriarty feels Moran’s breath against his skin, moving upwards as Moran slowly lifts his head to press his lips against the professor’s. The kiss is brief and light, though he knows that Moran wants more – that the colonel craves other forms of intimacy, ones which they have not engaged in since before his disappearance.

     “Professor,” Moran says softly, and he is still holding back, of course he is, not wanting to seem too pushy or demanding, but after so long he feels he must at least ask. “Do you want to…?” Still he cannot quite put it into proper words.

     “Not now.” Moriarty accompanies this rejection with a caress of Moran’s face. “I’m sorry, pet, I am not… not in the mood.”

     “It’s all right, it don’t matter.” Moran does not protest that Moriarty has not been ‘in the mood’ for a year now, that all this time he has been obliged to satisfy his sexual urges by himself, and Moriarty is grateful for his lack of comment on this. Yet from the way in which Moran turns his face away Moriarty fears that he has grossly offended his companion, as much as Moran always insists that he does not _need_ sex to be content.

     “After breakfast…” Moriarty wonders why his voice comes out slightly tremulous. He clears his throat and tries again. “After breakfast I thought we might take a walk over to the falls.”

     He feels more than hears Moran sigh again. It is some time before Moran can bring himself to speak, and then seemingly it is with the utmost reluctance.

     “Very well, Professor.”


	2. Chapter 2

    “You must eat more, Sebastian,” Moriarty tells his companion over the breakfast table as he spreads jam onto a piece of toast.

     “I’m not hungry.” Moran’s meal sits before him, barely touched. “I don’t know how you can have an appetite either, not so close to…” He trails off, gazing out of the window.

     “You can say the name, Moran, it will not jinx anything.” Moriarty would never believe in such foolish superstitions. “The Reichenbach Falls,” he says, and he would swear that Moran shudders slightly.

     “Yeah, that.” Moran returns to pushing his food around the plate. “How can you be so calm?”

     Moriarty chews a mouthful of toast carefully before swallowing it. “Because it is illogical to be anything but. Nothing bad can possibly happen if we revisit the falls.” With his free hand he reaches across the crisp white tablecloth and grips Moran’s hand, squeezing it briefly. “I promise you, nothing untoward will occur this time.”

     “Why did we even come here again then if you’re so unconcerned about it?”

     Moriarty relinquishes his hold on Moran’s hand and sits up straighter in his chair. “Merely to prove to myself that the place does not bother me, that logic can prevail over any irrational fears that may still linger in my mind.” He takes another bite of toast.

     “Hmm,” Moran says, thoroughly unconvinced by the professor’s breeziness. He takes a sip of his strong, bitter coffee and grimaces. Cold, he notes with distaste.

 ~

     The Reichenbach Falls, was there ever another name so capable of striking such terror into the heart of the normally seemingly fearless Colonel Moran? Not that the place didn’t unnerve him even before, those four years ago; he could not see the appeal of it even then nor understand why tourists were advised to go and marvel at it and go ‘ooh’ and ‘ahh’ and ‘golly gosh what a wondrous sight’. It was, to him, damp, dismal and foreboding.

     They can hear and see the falls from some way off. The spray rises up to a great height, like smoke, from where the water plunges down into the abyss, and the noise of it booms out of the depths, sounding eerily human at times, perhaps like lost souls of suicides (and, perhaps, murder victims?) weeping and wailing from the depths. An absurd, fanciful notion, but somewhat apt, Moran thinks.

     “Professor.” The colonel’s grip tightens on Moriarty’s arm.

     “Come along, Colonel.” Ever professional, ever logical, Moriarty draws him on, leaning upon his cane as he walks. “It is quite all right.”

     “Fucking depressing.” Moran’s casual cursing can barely conceal his unease about this dreadful place.

     “Here we are, just… a little closer.”

     Moriarty leads Moran down the path, ever nearer to the falls, to look down into that roaring green water; the sodden shining black rocks; the cauldron below where the water might as well be boiling hot, it is so agitated.

  _“Look at this too long and you’ll go mad,”_ Moran had said before, watching the water running its endless course and the spray rising up. It had made him feel giddy and slightly queasy and – perhaps most disturbingly of all – more than a little bit tempted simply to throw himself over.

     Now though his eyes are tightly shut so he can no longer see the raging waterfall. His face feels damp. The spray, of course, he thinks, until a bead of water trickles down his cheek, running over his lip. Swiping the droplet away with his tongue he tastes faint saltiness and abruptly lifts his free hand to scrub away the tears that have formed unbidden.

     “James.” He glances towards his companion who stares rapt into the water, his attention seemingly focused on some point deep down in the chasm.

      _Such violence_ , Moriarty thinks. Even the most deadly, devastating things can possess great beauty (is that not at least partly why Moran hunted tigers back in India? Not because he despised them but because he admired their great, dangerous beauty) but this is not a place of beauty but of death. Were he to fall over into the waterfall now would he live or die? The odds were not stacked in his favour the last time and yet he survived – broken, battered, alone, but he survived. But the chances of him surviving a second time are almost non-existent, he is well aware of that; this time he would almost certainly die; this time Moran would be left alone for good.

     He directs his gaze up a little, taking in the flickering curtain of misty spray, and a wave of dizziness sweeps over him. The very ground beneath his feet suddenly feels unstable, as if the endless churning of the water has degraded the cliffs, the path they are standing upon, all he took to be solid. He screws his eyes shut, hoping this will be sufficient to put an end to the dizzy spell, but patterns swirl behind his eyes and his ears are ringing shrilly now, almost drowning out the sound of the water, and he feels as if he can barely breathe.

     “James?” Moran says.

    Moriarty’s grasp has tightened around the handle of his cane, the fine leather of his glove pulled taut over his knuckles. “Sebastian!” he gasps, feeling as if he is choking, unable to draw breath still, feeling a band of tightness across his chest. He clutches at Moran’s forearm to steady himself as he begins to fall, as his cane slips from his grasp and rolls away from him to lie in the mud. At once though he feels Moran’s strong hands grasping him, holding him, guiding him back away from the waterfall, down the path.

     “It’s all right, it’s all right, I’ve got you, Professor, I’ve got you, that’s it.” Moran’s voice quakes a bit but he keeps up a steady stream of comforting words as he directs Moriarty to sit down upon a great boulder. Here he stands over him with his hands on Moriarty’s shoulders. “You’re safe, Professor, you’re safe.”

     “Moran, I…” Moriarty keeps his head bowed as he finally reopens his eyes. The ringing in his ears subsides gradually, as does much of the giddiness.

     “It’s all right, sir, just get your breath back.”

     Moriarty tries to breathe more slowly, trying to draw breaths and release the pressure in his chest.  “I came over rather dizzy momentarily,” he says at last. “It must… it must have been watching all that water swirling around and around.”

     “Yes sir, it must have been that.” If Moran is being sarcastic here then he hides it well. He dares to put his hand to Moriarty’s face, brushing his bearded cheek, and feels the professor press against his palm very briefly. “You’re all right now?”

     Moriarty straightens up and smiles – a smile that is a touch too strained around the edges, so tightly strung it may snap at any instant. “I am perfectly well.”

     “Can we go back to the hotel then?” Moran wraps his arms around himself, hugging himself briefly, and shivers. “This place fair puts the wind up me.”

     “I think…” Moriarty swallows. “Perhaps that might be for the best. Although, I seem to have mislaid my cane.”

     “I’ll fetch it, you wait there.” Moran darts back along the path to retrieve the missing cane, wanting to grab it quickly and hurry along their retreat from here but also not wanting to let Moriarty go anywhere even close to the waterfall again. “It’s a bit muddy, but…” He holds the cane out to Moriarty who takes it and leans heavily upon it as he stands. “Sir, let me-” Moran moves to help him rise but Moriarty waves him aside.

     “I can manage, I am not an invalid.”

     “I know sir, I just…” Moran steps back a pace, dropping his gaze.

     “What?”

     “I worry about you.”

     “You should not.” Moriarty’s look is stern, severe, but seeing Moran’s hangdog expression he softens slightly. “Pigeon, I am all right, your fretting is needless.” Leaning on his cane still, he holds out his arm to Moran, who after eyeing him for a second or two links his arm through the professor’s again.

     Slowly, carefully, they make their way back down the hill towards the hotel.


	3. Chapter 3

    Sitting before a roaring log fire, Moriarty stares into the flames, brooding, reflecting upon human weakness. His legs ache abominably after their walk; his hands too. He stretches his hands palms out towards the fire, feeling the heat caressing his skin and driving out the lingering dampness of the waterfall. Of course, he thinks with a grim smile, being dampened by the mist kicked up by the gushing water is nothing like the soaking he must have had when he had plunged _into_ it.

     “Professor?” Moran sits opposite Moriarty, in the second of the wing-backed chairs drawn up towards the fireplace. It is quite apparent to him that though Moriarty is presently tolerating his presence, the professor does not want him any closer.

     He too holds his hands out to warm them before the fire. He always did despise dampness and cold far more than the professor, at least before.

     Outside the skies have turned overcast, the brilliant blue eclipsed by grey, the sun concealing itself behind the thickening clouds which shadow the area around the hotel now. It makes the hills and village look sombre rather than vivid; casts the interior of their hotel into growing gloom also, and this makes Moriarty shudder.

     “Are you all right?” Moran asks, glancing at him almost shyly.

     “I am perfectly well.”

     Moran presses his lips into a tight line, saying nothing, but evidently he remains far from convinced. “Sir…” he begins, staring resolutely into the flickering flames.

     Moriarty sighs and rises stiffly to his feet.

     Moran glances back sharply and stands up himself.

     “No! Stay there,” Moriarty snaps. “I wish to be alone for a time.”

     “But-”

     “Good lord, do I need your permission now to so much as breathe?” Moriarty skirts past him, carefully avoiding touching Moran lest this encourage him to follow. “I do not need you shadowing my every move and panting down my neck like some street cur I threw a few scraps to once!” he says over his shoulder.

     “Professor?” Moran says incredulously, unable to entirely believe that Moriarty has spoken to him so. Even now fury flashes across his features. The professor may not immediately provoke him into physical violence but still such unjust comments stir his anger.

    “ _Leave me alone_!” Moriarty strides away swiftly and firmly, trying with gritted teeth not to allow his limp to become too obvious. His cane raps harshly on the wooden floor as he storms from the room before he lets the door slam behind him as he disappears.

     Moran watches him go with fists half-clenched. Only very slowly does he uncurl his fingers and let out a long, shaky sigh.

     “Colonel Moran?” calls a voice, and Moran spins around to confront the man who addresses him. “You are all right?” asks Peter Steiler. He has emerged from the kitchen, wiping his hands on his apron.

     “I’m fine.” Moran runs a hand through his hair.

     “And the professor? Is he well?”

     “He wanted to be alone.” Moran cannot wholly keep the venom from his voice when he says this. He knows full well that Moriarty, much like him, is a solitary and secretive man by nature but he thought they were beyond the point where the professor would treat him almost as a stranger, pushing Moran away rather than permitting him close, when he is clearly troubled.

     “You need something? Coffee?”

     Moran laughs darkly. “No, no coffee, thank you.” He glances over towards where Moriarty vanished from his view, wondering just where precisely the professor has gone. To their room, or outside?

     Steiler eyes him sagely for a moment. “Something a little stronger then, yes? I have brandy, if you would like.”

     Moran’s gaze drifts back to meet Steiler’s. Alcohol never really solved any of his problems, but it always was a pleasant enough way to take the edge off his hurt. He licks his lips slightly. “Brandy’d be nice, thank you.”

 

~

      He is not sure how he came to be sitting here with this man – Steiler with his ample moustache and kindly blue eyes and the apron still around his waist dusted with flour – talking to him over a glass of brandy. No, not talking, _confiding_.  

    “Your professor, he is a very interesting man,” Steiler said shortly upon pouring the brandy for the both of them, making it plain then that he intended to stay and drink with the colonel whether he was wanted or not. But then seeing as it was Steiler’s hotel and Steiler’s brandy and he was apparently forbidden from pursuing Moriarty, Moran did not see that there was any point in objecting to the man’s presence.

    “That he is.” Not committing himself too much to any remark that can possibly encompass the depth and breadth of his admiration for the professor; his love for him; his obsession with him, even.

    With the brandy and the heat of the fire, even with concerns for Moriarty running forever through his brain, he relaxes, just a bit, slumping slightly in his chair rather than sitting upright as he gazes into the flames.

    “He is… he’s magnificent, you know?” he says after a time, turning to regard Steiler, who nods. “His intelligence, his mind, how he thinks, the things he comes up with. He’s brilliant, so brilliant, and I never… I never really understood, what he saw in me.”

    “You have many talents, Colonel.”

    “ _Talents_.” Moran snorts into his brandy glass. “Shootin’, cheatin’, drinkin’ and whorin’?” He throws back his head against the antimacassar and laughs.

    “Clearly he saw much in you he admired or he would not have become close to you.”

    Moran narrows his eyes slightly as he contemplates this. “You think?”

    “Certainly. The professor… he seems to me to be a very discerning man, very particular in his tastes. He would not tolerate a fool.”

    Moran chuckles with real mirth now. “That he wouldn’t.” Abruptly his amusement dissipates though. “Whatever he saw in me back then though, maybe he doesn’t see it no more.”

    “You are afraid he will disappear again,” Steiler observes, and when the colonel turns to stare at him he holds Moran’s gaze briefly. “But that this time he will not return.”

    Moran opens his mouth to protest this, then closes it again. “Maybe.” He turns to stare into the fire once more. “Maybe he regrets ever coming back for me.”

    “You do not believe that to be true.”

    “Do I not?” Moran tosses a glance back at Steiler and laughs bitterly again. “I don’t know what to think when he will barely speak to me.”

     “You still, if you do not mind me making the observation, share a room,” Steiler says. “A _bed_.” When Moran glares at him again he shrugs one shoulder idly. “Your attempt at subterfuge was entirely unnecessary, I assure you. If you only required one room you should have saved yourself the money and only paid for one. I have never betrayed your secret though, Colonel, and I would not.”

     Moran studies the other man’s face momentarily, finding only concern there. No, he thinks, Steiler would not expose his and the professor’s relationship. “Reckon I might be needing the second room tonight, the way things are going.”

     “Things are so bad?”

     “I don’t know what they are, we were all right, I thought, in our own way, except…” He breaks off here. Certain factors – being in a different country, knowing Steiler from years ago, the man’s understanding and kindness, the brandy – all of these have conspired to loosen his tongue and make him open to discussing matters he would never usually dare discuss with another. Even so he cannot confide in the old man about his sex life being seemingly _deceased_ \- that would be taking things too far. “Well… I thought we were getting back to how things were, then he said we should travel, and I thought, all right, it might be nice to go places with him and to see a few different sights. Then I found out he was adamant we came back here, and I mean, not just _here_ to your hotel, I mean…”

     “To visit the falls?”

     “Yeah. He wanted to come here, seemed to need it almost, and now... now I don’t know what he’s up to, what he’s thinking, I cannot read him, I cannot understand him.” Moran takes a swallow of brandy. “I don’t know what he wants any more, but I fear…” He notes how his hands tremble around the brandy glass. “I fear it ain’t me.”

     Steiler stands, strolls over to Moran’s chair and puts a hand upon Moran’s shoulder. Squeezing gently, he smiles kindly down at the colonel. “My wife and I,” he says, “have been together for nearly forty years now – forty happy years. I hope that we will be blessed with many more years together yet.”

     Moran looks up at him, slightly puzzled by this. “That is, ah… I am very pleased for you and your wife.”

    “Mathilde and I… we do not always necessarily get along, we argue, we have our differences, we have suffered many hardships that came dangerously close to pulling us apart, but we have always got through everything, and do you know why?”

     Moran still looks up at him, rather rapt by Steiler’s words. “Why?”

     “Because we love each other very much, Colonel, and because we talk to each other, and yes, from time to time we know we must give each other space and time alone, but ultimately always we come back to each other and we talk things through with each other.”

     “So you think I should…?”

     “Talk to the professor, yes. Give him a little time to be alone, indeed that may be a good thing – all of us need a little time to ourselves now and then. But he is confused, Colonel. I think that he cares for you very much, but he is very confused about what to do for the best.”

     “The best for him?”

     “The best for _you_.”

     “I don’t…” Moran glances off into space momentarily.

     “Then when he has had his time alone, talk to him, until you do understand.” Steiler gives Moran’s shoulder another brief squeeze before he plucks up the brandy bottle and his own empty glass and wanders back towards the kitchen, leaving Moran to stare reflectively into the flames once more.


	4. Chapter 4

    When Moriarty returns to the hotel the sky is the darkening blue of twilight outside.  Lamplight shines through the windows of the hotel and softly illuminates the corridor leading to the bedrooms. The gleam of the lamps should be a welcoming sight after being out of doors in the chilly air but the professor hardly notices this as he walks. Still he leans heavily upon his cane, making indentations in the pile of the crimson carpet with it. His limbs and hands ache more than ever now. It would be nice, he thinks, to sink into a wonderfully hot bath and soak away a few of the aches in his bones and joints but the bathing facilities here – while adequate – are hardly luxurious.

     He enters the room which has become theirs half-expecting to find it empty – there being no lights on in the room after all – but it is not. Moran sits on the bed, watching him intently. He makes no move upon Moriarty’s entrance, neither rising nor moving to aid him in walking.  

     “Professor,” Moran says, and his tone is very nearly unreadable. With the straightness of his posture and the steadiness of his gaze as he watches Moriarty he makes a very good job of concealing the fact he has been drinking, and far more than just the one glass of brandy he consumed with Steiler. Still he cannot wholly deceive the professor on this matter though.

    After turning on the light Moriarty pauses before him, gritting his teeth slightly against the pain. “You turn to the bottle the minute my back is turned?”

     “Sometimes I find the bottle a more open companion than you. In fact, no.” Moran stands up, rising to his full height, still steady, still with his gaze fixed on Moriarty’s. The professor was always that bit taller than him and still is, but he seems smaller than before, a little less imposing; a little more frail; a lot older. “ _Frequently_ I find the bottle a more open companion than you.”

    “That much is glaringly obvious to me,” Moriarty remarks scathingly, noting the faint but clearly detectable whiff of alcohol emanating from Moran.

     “Where did you go?”

     “Out.”

    “That much was evident.”

    “For a walk.”

    “Where?”

    Moriarty bares his teeth in a strange smile. “I am amazed that you did not follow me to find out, since you are so desperate to monitor my every movement.”

    “I respected your desire for privacy, much as I disliked it.”

    “How magnanimous of you.” Moriarty tosses his cane down onto the bed and sinks down wearily beside it, letting his aching legs finally give way. There he sits and, whilst eyeing Moran thoughtfully, he begins to peel off his leather gloves. “Of course this gave you ample opportunity to get yourself drunk in my absence.”

    “I am not drunk.”

    “I beg to differ. I can smell the scotch on your breath from here, as I have been able to countless times before. You remain predictable in your habits, Colonel – if you are rejected you soon turn to the bottle for comfort.”

    Moran grins as he shakes his head slowly. “What do you want, Professor? To provoke me? Stir my temper until I strike you? Get a right proper barney going on so you can, what, totally avoid the real issue here?” He steps towards Moriarty with such speed that Moriarty draws back a degree. “Is that all so much easier for you to bear? Is trying to get me to hurt you so much more acceptable to you than facing up to the fact that you have feelings?” He steps even closer towards the professor, leaning down over him, his face pressed two inches from Moriarty’s. “Well I ain’t gonna hit you, and I ain’t gonna lose my temper with you, and I ain’t gonna leave this room neither until I get what I want from you.”

    Moriarty arches an eyebrow at him. “So you intend to rape me, do you?” he asks in a crisp tone.

    Moran lifts his hand sharply. “Don’t you fucking dare!” He practically snarls these words out, even as he drops his hand again, curling his fingers tightly. “Don’t you _ever_ fucking dare even suggest I’d do such a thing, not even in jest!”

    Moriarty smirks. This time he has not flinched even at the instant when it seemed Moran might truly strike him. “I thought you were not ‘gonna’ hit me, that you were not ‘gonna’ lose your temper with me.” He says this in a calm, composed voice, his words a sneering mockery of Moran’s words. “How fickle you are, and yet how predictable.”

    Moran narrows his eyes but he steps back a pace. “You are a fucking bastard at times.”

    Moriarty only smiles in response to this.

    “I weren’t talking about sex and you damned well know it.” Moran takes a deep breath and lets both hands drop by his sides. He carefully unclenches his fist.

    “Do I?” Moriarty muses, still smiling. “You with your insatiable libido, your persistent need for sexual gratification.”

    “Why are you being like this?” Moran asks softly, standing now with his head bowed, looking up at Moriarty from beneath his brows. “It is unworthy of you.”

    “Like what?”

    “Saying these things you know are not true, pushing me away.”

    “I brought you here, did I not?”

    “Only to reject me here, it seems. I am astonished you have even let me share your bed these past nights. Did coming here on this journey into our – _your_ – past make you realise that…” The words stick in his throat and he spins away, exasperated more with himself than with Moriarty now. The professor feels humiliated by his own perceived weakness, that much he is sure of, that much he understands, even though he has never thought of Moriarty as weak. The professor is the strongest man he knows and physical injury and his nearly fainting at the sight of the waterfall have not changed that perception. It is his own weakness which disturbs Moran the most, his inability to remain composed in front of Moriarty now. He had hoped drinking the scotch he had sneaked into their luggage might steady his nerves but it seems only to have pushed him ever closer to breaking down.

    “That, what?” Moriarty enquires.

    “That coming back to me was a mistake!” Moran’s hands clench tightly once more but not to form fists to strike the professor; this is more so he may drive his fingernails into his palms, hoping the pain will be enough to help him compose himself. He really did not want to break down in front of the professor like some hysterical child. “Even though… Even though…”

    Moriarty has gone very quiet now and Moran cannot bring himself to look at him again. The professor’s silence seems answer enough. Moran screws his eyes tightly shut and drops his head into his hands, fighting his conflicting desires to say nothing or to blurt out the words that have run through his head - have been on the tip of his tongue - so many times for so many years, but always unspoken.

    It is the latter urge that triumphs this time; that conquers his mind; takes over his lips, his tongue, making him cry out, with a look of such anguish in his eyes as he does so, “ _I love you!_ "


	5. Chapter 5

    Moran’s words have rushed out in a fierce whisper, forced out between his fingers, his tone quiet but cutting through the silence like a knife. He buries his face in his hands and only after a few seconds have passed does he straighten up and run both hands through his hair, pushing it back off his forehead as he finally dares turn to face Moriarty again. “Well?” he says.

     Moriarty has remained silent still, sitting there with his lips tightly compressed. His countenance seems stern, implacable as a marble statute as he faces Moran. “I know,” he says at last.

     Moran throws back his head in a half-hysterical burst of laughter. “That’s it? That’s all you have to say?”

     “What, my dear Colonel, would you like me to say?”

      “I don’t know!” Moran practically lunges at him again but he hesitates before Moriarty, realising now… he can see the cracks in Moriarty’s facade, in that mask of composure, in all those layers the professor wraps around himself, and it occurs to him that Moriarty is lost, as lost as he is. “ _James_!” It is not just a name, it’s a plea, it’s him begging Moriarty to drop this pretence and illusion and be honest about his doubts, his insecurities, rather than trying to drive Moran away from him to keep him from seeing the truth. “I love you,” he says again, dropping to his knees before the professor, resting his face against Moriarty’s knee, and now he has opened the gates there is no holding it all back. “I love you so much, Professor, I love you.”

     “I know,” Moriarty says again, but this time his voice breaks slightly. “I know, my dear Moran, I do know, I have long known that, but…”

     Moran looks up at him and sees the look of sheer pain that is written in Moriarty’s eyes – a pain that is not merely physical. “But what?”

     “But it is not enough, is it? Your loving me is not sufficient.”

     “Not enough for what?”

     “To make you happy.”

     “I’m happy with you.”

     “You say that, and yet you are not.” Moriarty begins to stroke his fingers through Moran’s hair. “I cannot make you happy, not any more.”

     “So coming back to me _was_ a mistake?”

     “ _Yes_!” Moriarty hisses, carding his fingers through Moran’s hair still.

     “Because you do not care for me any longer?”

     “No, because it was selfish!”

     Moran lifts his head from Moriarty’s knee and stares at him, wide-eyed. “Sir?”

     “It was my own selfish desire that brought me back to you; that made me want you by my side again, even though I knew that I could no longer make you happy.”

     “Sir, no.” Moran shakes his head again. “You make me happy. Getting you back after I thought you dead… it was like a thousand birthdays and Christmases all rolled into one.”

     Moriarty strokes Moran’s hair more gently now, with more tenderness. “But you are not happy, truly, are you? Because we no longer couple as we used to do.”

     “You’re back to sex again?” Moran scoffs. “I told you so many times, Professor, sex don’t matter to me. _You_ matter to me. Of course I loved the sex we had and I’d love to have it again but if you no longer want to lie with me then I don’t care, I don’t mind, I’ll never have sex again if it’ll make you happy.” With the professor’s general attitude towards such physical intimacy – where Moriarty is evidently not attracted to Moran as Moran is attracted to him – Moran has long been acquainted, at least hypothetically, with such a notion as never having sex with the professor. Indeed he was surprised when Moriarty first proposed that they have a sexual relationship, having long assumed such things would never be more than idle fantasies.

     “Yet it clearly troubles you that we have not had sex since before…” Moriarty swallows thickly and glances away.

     “It’s not about the sex!” Moran cries. “Look, if you don’t want to have sex ever again then just tell me. It’s not the thought of you not wanting sex that makes me unhappy, it’s the thought of you not wanting _me_!”

     “It is not-” Moriarty breaks himself off abruptly.

     “Professor?” Moran sits up a little straighter and puts his hand on Moriarty’s knee, gently stroking it as he struggles to comprehend the true source of Moriarty’s anguish. “Whatever’s wrong, tell me, please.”

     Now Moriarty closes his eyes, unable to meet Moran’s gaze as he says, “It is not a matter of _want_ , it is a matter of… I _cannot_.”

     “You cannot… have sex?”

     “No.” Moriarty’s eyes remain closed.

     “You mean you physically…?”

     “I fear not.”

     Moran bursts out laughing, this reaction proving sufficient to cause the professor’s eyes to fly open.

     “Do not laugh at me, Moran.”

     Moran composes himself at once. “I’m not laughing at you, honest, I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to make it seem I was. Just… it were just relief, sir. I mean… that’s _all_ it is? That you can’t get it up no more?”

     “Now you are mocking me.”

     “I’m not mocking you, I swear, I promise you I’m not mocking you or laughing at you.” Moran hoists himself to his feet and sits on the bed beside the professor, close enough so his side touches Moriarty’s. “I just meant… I thought you didn’t care for me any more; that you didn’t really want to be with me; that all that time apart from me had made you realise… you preferred to be alone; that that was why you kept turning me down, and yet _this_ is why you’ve been pushing me away? Because you think I wouldn’t really want you any more just because…?”

     “You deserve more than I can give to you. You deserve someone who can give you what you want, what you need.”

    “I want you,” Moran says firmly, slipping his hand down to grasp Moriarty’s, to squeeze it. “I _need_ you.”

     Moriarty looks at his lover sadly. “For all your brave words, Moran, I fear your libido will get the better of you. You care too much for sex.”

     “Damn the sex! I want _you_ , and if one day it turns out you can fuck me after all then that’ll be fine and dandy but if you can’t… if you never can again… _I don’t care_ , d’ya hear me? I don’t care. I fell for you when I was convinced you were entirely celibate and we’d never be intimate in that way, and I didn’t mind that, I was perfectly all right with that idea so long as you showed _some_ kind of real interest in me, and I don’t need sex with you to be happy now. I just want… I want you to be open with me, Professor, not for you to decide without talking to me first what’s best and right for me and try to push me away because of some misguided idea that that’s what I need. You used to keep on at me, remember, to confide in you when I was troubled?”

     “Mm.”

     “Without you… I wouldn’t have got by. I owe you so much, Professor. Like when my father passed… I was a mess and I know it, and I was scared to ask for your help and I was afraid you’d think me weak and foolish but you offered it anyway, and you got me through that, and so much else. So why, James, didn’t _you_ confide in me about this sooner?” Moran asks this gently, not wanting it sound like an accusation, only an honest query. “I wouldn’t have thought ill of you.”

     “Apparently it is very difficult to confide one’s own failings in another,” Moriarty confesses. “Especially when one has come to believe that…”

     “That I’d reject you for it?”

     “Sooner or later, I feared you would… perhaps not reject me precisely, but lose interest in me, yes.”

     “Do you know so little of me that you’d truly think that?”

     Moriarty sighs a little as he shakes his head from side to side. “What one _knows_ to be true and what one’s doubts and insecurities convince oneself are true,” he says, “are seemingly two entirely different things.”


	6. Chapter 6

    “God, Professor.” Moran laughs again, though there seems to be something of a sob in the sound. Resting his head against Moriarty’s shoulder he says again, “I love you, James.”

     Moriarty smiles to himself. “You have not grown bored of those words yet?”

     “No, now I’ve said ‘em once and not had you try to murder me in response I feel I could say ‘em to you ‘til the end of time.” He nuzzles a little closer against Moriarty’s side. “You once said to me, I was the closest you’d ever had to a wife, or a husband; that you regarded me as your common-law husband even.”

     “I may have said something of the sort, yes.”

     “Is that how you feel still? Do you still care me for as you did then?”

     Moriarty thinks about this for a few seconds. “No,” he says finally, and Moran looks at him with a start.

     “No?” He drops his eyes, downcast.

     “No, Moran,” Moriarty murmurs, slipping his arm around the colonel, drawing him closer. “I do not care for you as I did then; I care for you _even more_ now.”

     Moran bites his lip, not knowing how to respond to this. “Professor…”

     “I fear I may have acted rashly,” Moriarty admits. “But my intentions were honourable. I was trying to do what was best for you.”

     “What’s best for me is being with you.” Moran lifts Moriarty’s hand to his lips and gently kisses his knuckles. “And if you still truly want to be with me…”

     “I do,” Moriarty says. “Those years apart from you confirmed to me that much as I relish my time alone, much as I need it even, living a _life_ of solitude would be unbearable. Your companionship made me happier than I had ever been, my dove. The idea of remaining apart from you then forever more… I could not endure that.”

     “And you need not,” Moran assures him, sliding his arm around the professor once more. “I’m not leaving you.” The pair lapse into silence for a time, an easy silence, not an awkward one, before Moran finally speaks again. “Where did you go, after you walked out?”

     “I simply… walked.”

      “But where?”

      “Not to visit the falls again, I assure you.” Although Moriarty had been tempted to confront this part of his past again. He had come to realise though the folly of such an action as he set out on the path towards the Reichenbach Falls once again. “I simply wished to be alone for a time, to think.”

     “About what?”

     “About you. About us.”

     “So you decided, what, to drive me away in some misguided attempt to make me happy?” Moran smiles sadly.

     Moriarty shrugs, a gesture that attempts to be flippant and light-hearted perhaps but fails to hide the true turmoil in his mind. “I am, or I suppose more correctly I _was_ , a professor of mathematics, not of the mind or the arts or literature or something somewhat more abstract. Logic and reason are what I value. All this, these… feelings, these emotions… they have no place in my world. Or, leastways, they did not used to have any place in my world. Even now I am ill-suited to know how to deal with them.”

     Moran squeezes Moriarty’s hand tightly. “Then that is why you must do as you always told me I must do with you, and talk to me about your concerns.” Silence settles between them briefly before Moran speaks again. “Professor, are you sure you really can’t… get it up? I mean, it’s not like we’ve actually tried.”

     Beside him Moriarty tenses. “I fear not, with my injuries; the pain… I fear it may be impossible.”

     “Well don’t you at least want to try and find out? I don’t mean _now_ ,” Moran is quick to reassure him, as he feels Moriarty tensing up even more. “I just mean… well maybe it’s just the fear of failure that’s putting you off, you know? Maybe it’s in your head more than, well, something wrong with the _mechanics_ of it. Maybe there’s nothing really wrong with anything _down there_ , you’re just nervous, is all. And I mean _if_ you want to, when you feel up to it, when you’re more relaxed, we could at least try? I would not think less of you if you could not carry it through, or if it turned out… well you truly couldn’t do it, but… you might surprise yourself.”

     “I don’t know, Moran.” Moriarty sounds faintly alarmed at this prospect. He does miss that particular form of intimacy; it was never only for Moran’s sake that he consented to having a sexual relationship with him. It does not seem wholly logical to him either that his injuries could have permanently impaired him in such a way – mercifully he did manage to avoid any severe spinal injuries or those that have completely prevented him from walking – so perhaps Moran is correct; perhaps the fault lies somewhere in his mind and not in his body at all. But even so… were he to make the attempt again and fail, he does not think that even Moran’s compassion could assuage the humiliation he would feel. Even the merest thought of actually attempting sex at present, even with his most trusted companion, fills him with horror.

    “Well I’m not forcing you, it’s just an idea. Whatever you want to do, Professor, you just let me know and I’ll abide by that.” Moran idly caresses Moriarty’s side, soothing him. “I don’t expect things to just magically turn back to how they were between us, I never did, I just… I want you to be happy again.”

    “That is what I want for you too, pet.” Moriarty turns his face towards Moran’s. “If it would make you happy, I would marry you tomorrow if I could.”

    Moran grins. “Then why don’t we?”

    “Why don’t we…?”

    “Get married.”

    “Don’t be absurd.”

    “I’m not being absurd, it may not be legally binding and we may not be able to have witnesses or some fancy ceremony but in spirit, as common-law husbands, can we not marry? Can we not pledge to care for and cherish each other in sickness and in health and all that?”

    “I suppose…” Moriarty closes his eyes thoughtfully. “We could, yes.” A thought occurs to him and he flicks open his eyes again. “And perhaps… we might exchange rings?” he suggests, showing an unusual degree of hesitancy.

    “I’d like that.”

    “That might have to wait until we reach Paris.”

    “I don’t mind.” Moran glances at his lover’s face. “We  _are_ still travelling on further then?”

    “If you want to, yes.”

    “Whatever you came here for, that’s over and done with now?”

    “I believe so. I think that chapter is very firmly closed. It is time I – we – put that part of our lives firmly behind us.”

      Moran reaches up and very gently turns Moriarty’s face towards his. “Professor,” he says. “James, I… I know I’m not a great man, nor even a good one, but… all that I am, I’d give to you; I’d cherish you and care for you always if you would… if you’d do me the honour of consenting to marry me.”

    Moriarty regards him with faint amusement now. “Will you honour and obey me?”

    Moran flashes him a wicked grin. “Always.”

    “Will you care for me in sickness and health, until death do us part?”

    “Death cannot part us, Professor – it tried once already and failed.”

    “Yes, it did.” Moriarty smiles again, not without a little sadness at the recollection of what occurred, as he gently cups Moran’s cheek. “Yes, I will marry you, my dove, and I will cherish you and care for you, in sickness and in health, also.”

    “And this time…” Moran doesn’t want to try his luck too much, but he feels it must be said. “You will confide in me about your troubles, right?”

     “I will.”

    “Promise?”

     Moriarty rolls his eyes. “All right, I promise.”

    “I love you, Professor.” Still the novelty of saying these words has not worn off for Moran, nor has seeing Moriarty’s amusement in response. “It’s all right,” he says quietly, leaning in for a kiss. “I don’t expect you to say it in return.” That much, he is sure, remains too much for the professor, but Moriarty has already given him so much this evening; there is no need for him to utter those words.

    Moriarty does kiss him on the lips, very sweetly, sweeter than anything Moran has had from Moriarty in a long while.

    “My dove,” he murmurs softly, still caressing Moran’s cheek.

    “Perhaps you should rest for a while,” Moran says, showing obvious reluctance however to withdraw from him. “You must be exhausted, and we have a little time before dinner.”

    “Mm, perhaps that might be… pleasant.” Moriarty yawns; now that Moran has broached the matter he realises how very weary he is.

   “Let me…” Moran gently slides off the bed and kneels before Moriarty once more, though this time his intention is to remove the professor’s boots. “There.” He sets the boots neatly aside. “You lie down for a bit now, sir.”

    “You will wake me up in time to get changed for dinner?” Moriarty asks, moving stiffly to lie fully upon the bed. As he lies down he holds out his cane to Moran.

    “Of course I will.” Moran takes the cane from him, leaning over him briefly to kiss him gently on the forehead, before he straightens up. “Rest now.”


	7. Chapter 7

    Moran gently rouses Moriarty an hour or so later to get changed for dinner before he slips into the other room to change himself. Sitting up on the bed the professor finds a blanket covering him that had not been on him earlier. Moran must have covered him with it while he slept, ever considerate of his lover’s wellbeing, and this realisation causes a sharp pang of something perilously close to guilt to run through Moriarty as he recalls some of the things he said to Moran. He recollects also something that Moran said to him - _I know I’m not a great man, nor even a good one_. He is not a good man either, Moriarty thinks. Some might say the pair deserve each other, each being as bad as the other, but the professor himself wonders again if he is worthy of the colonel.

     Still, if Moran harbours any resentment from their earlier argument then he shows none of it. He seems in a good mood now, showing no ill effects from his alcohol consumption. He too has changed into a smarter suit, nothing _too_ formal but more suited for evening wear, and is consistently attentive to the professor’s needs. When Moriarty seems to be struggling to fasten up the buttons of his waistcoat Moran steps over to him and gives him a questioning look.

    “Professor, may I?”

     Moriarty almost manages to conceal his sigh of resentment – not towards Moran but at his own weakness. “You may,” he says, relinquishing the fastening of the fiddly little buttons to his companion. He makes a mental note not to wear this waistcoat again.

    “We should travel somewhere warmer,” Moran remarks as he fastens it up. “It’d be better for your aches and pains.”

     Moriarty glances away over Moran’s shoulder. “I needed to come here.”

     “Aye, but… now we’re done here, we could go somewhere else.”

     “I’d prefer to stick to our plans and head to Paris.” Moriarty cannot call it some manner of sentimental longing, precisely, but he does wish very much to visit that city again and for reasons far less morbid maybe than those which drew him here. Paris too has significant memories for the pair, ones far less painful to recall than those stirred up here in Meiringen.

     “Well, what about after Paris?” Moran looks up at him after slipping home the last button.

     “Perhaps,” says Moriarty, distantly.

 ~

     When they go through to the dining room this time Moriarty forgoes the cane, leaving it behind in the bedroom. He chooses tonight only to take Moran’s arm and to lean on him for support.

     “Professor, if you do not mind me commenting,” remarks Steiler upon seeing the pair, “I think the fresh air and exercise may have done you some good; there seems to be more healthy colour in your cheeks.” He draws out the chair for the professor.

     “Thank you, Herr Steiler,” Moriarty says, smiling at their host as Moran helps him to sit. His legs are still aching abominably but even so he thinks perhaps Steiler is correct and not merely making polite conversation. Perhaps there were some benefits to coming to this wretched place after all.

     “And Colonel Moran.” Steiler catches Moran’s eye above Moriarty’s head as Moran moves to his seat. “You are looking well this evening. I trust matters have… resolved themselves?”

     “Yes, thank you.” Moran smirks slightly as he sits down.

     “Very good, very good!” Steiler claps his hands together as he scurries away to bring them their wine.

      Moriarty raises a questioning eyebrow at Moran but asks nothing aloud.

      “He was just concerned for you after you stormed off,” Moran says. “That’s all.”

      Moriarty is not entirely convinced that this is the full truth of the issue, but no matter. It is not worth pressing the issue and Steiler is discreet and reliable, he is certain of that.

      Their dinner is superb, as usual. Though the food itself might seem somewhat rustic compared to the fair of various other hotels, this is more than made up for by the skills of Peter Steiler and his wife Mathilde. Now, unlike upon the previous night, Moran feels able to actually take notice of and even enjoy his meal, feeling as if some great weight or perhaps a huge dark cloud has been lifted from him. He tucks into his food with enthusiasm and even though he does not particularly have a sweet tooth, when Moriarty (feeling rather worn out) proves unable to finish his portion of Mathilde’s delicious apple tart, Moran polishes it off for him. This earns him a fond and amused smile from Moriarty.

     “What?” Moran enquires, pausing with his fork half-way to his lips after scraping up the last crumbs of tart.

     “Nothing.” Moriarty continues to smile. “It is simply good to see you with such an appetite.”

 ~

     “Tomorrow I think… we must take things rather easier,” the professor remarks as Moran concludes his meal by sampling various cheeses.

     “No more visits to the Reichenbach Falls?” Moran enquires.

     “No, no more of that,” Moriarty agrees. “I think I have seen quite enough of the Reichenbach Falls to last me a lifetime.”

     “Same here,” says Moran, and pops a piece of cheese into his mouth.

 ~

     As planned their final day in Meiringen passes quietly, with the pair only taking a couple of short strolls in the pleasant wintery sunshine and spending much of the rest of the day relaxing in the hotel. There the professor peruses various newspapers and Moran pretends to be engrossed in a book, though really he is not-so-subtly keeping an eye on Moriarty to be absolutely certain he has not overdone things.

     His concern though is needless. By the next morning Moriarty feels quite refreshed enough to resume their travels as intended, as they begin their journey that will take them from Switzerland to France.

     “All is well?” asks Steiler as Moran goes to bid him goodbye in private.

     “All is well,” Moran says, smiling as he offers Steiler his hand. “Thank you, for what you said.”

     Steiler clasps Moran’s hand warmly in both of his. “You are most welcome, Colonel.”


	8. Chapter 8

    “So if we’re as good as married then…” Moran remarks idly upon their journey into Bern. Sitting opposite to the professor in the train carriage he lets his gaze drift casually from the passing scenery onto Moriarty’s face. “Is this our honeymoon?”

     The professor chuckles softly. “Yes, I suppose it is.” Although after a moment his face clouds somewhat. “Although…”

     “What’s wrong?”

     “I am aware that it may be traditional for those on their honeymoon, to, well, consummate the relationship.”

      Moran snorts. “We’ve done that plenty of times already, let’s do something else now.” He leans over and pats the professor’s knee. “I meant what I said, sir, if you can’t ever do that again, or you don’t want to, I don’t mind.”

     “You would not miss it?”

     “Of course I’ll miss it, but I’d miss you far, far more if we had to part because of it.” Moran flashes him a brief but warm smile. “And sex was just a part of what we used to have, there was always so much more to it than just that, wasn’t there?”

     “Yes I know, but…” Now Moriarty glances out of the window. “I cannot help but be concerned that… it is easy enough for you to say you do not need sex but it will be quite another thing for you to go without it as the time passes.”

     “I will not stray, sir.”

     “I did not suggest that you would stray, only that you might prove to be discontent.”

     Moran shakes his head. “No sir, so long as I have you in other ways, I will not be discontent.” He shifts over to sit beside the professor and takes Moriarty’s gloved hand in his. “You need to stop concerning yourself with this, it’ll drive you mad, and for no reason at all.” He has seen Moriarty’s dark moods before and he is aware that even before the fall the self-confident, masterful professor still had his doubts and insecurities. But he has never seen this side of the man before, one so concerned seemingly above all else with Moran’s long-term happiness, the side that would make him treat Moran cruelly in a misguided yet ultimately rather selfless belief that driving him away would be best for Moran in the long run – that Moran would be far happier overall without him, as much as it would pain the professor to lose him. It is touching in its way that Moriarty cares for him so, but this is not the professor he knows of old and he wishes very much that that old professor would return – that Moriarty’s self-confidence and his mastery would come back. Still, as disconcerting as it is to see him this way, it is after all not so long since his seemingly miraculous return from the dead. Bearing that in mind perhaps they have made really quite excellent progress so far in resuming their close relationship.

     “I am…” Moriarty coughs slightly. “I am… aware that I said some things to you, made certain accusations that were… unforgivable.”

     “Not unforgivable,” Moran corrects him. Never mind forgiving (which of course he has), he’d almost forgotten about them too, having dismissed them from his mind as being of no real importance. “I understand why you said ‘em and I know you never meant ‘em.” Not like certain people when they spat their vitriol-filled words at him, lashing him with contemptuous accusations designed to wound and worry at him in the most vicious of ways – they meant every sordid, spiteful word of what they threw at him.

     “I still should not have said them. You were right, Moran; such words were unworthy of me.” Moriarty lapses into silence.

     Seemingly this is the closest thing Moran will get to an apology but that’s all right with him. The professor never was good at verbal apologies, preferring to express himself through actions more than words, and now he does the same, sliding his arm around Moran’s upper torso, loosely embracing him. Moran settles against the professor, content enough now, reassured for the moment at least that Moriarty’s mood has not sunk too low. They are still sitting like this, really quite peacefully, when the train pulls into Bern station. It almost seems a pity to have to leave the train now.

 ~ 

    Two days spent in Bern sees them admiring the city’s medieval architecture, visiting its Gothic cathedral and the bear pit and strolling alongside the Aare river. Since departing from Meiringen the weather has declined somewhat, with more clouds gathering and snow spitting down. Still, wrapped up warmly against the chill, muffled up in scarves and gloves, they are content to ramble about the old city and see the sights and when the cold gets too much they can slink indoors again for hot drinks and food or simply to sit together and enjoy each other’s close companionship.

     Despite the cold Moran does seem far more relaxed now, Moriarty notes. Putting distance between themselves and the Reichenbach Falls has probably helped in this. His behaviour seems to have changed in other ways though – he is just as attentive as usual but he seems to be making even more of an effort than ever before to indicate to the professor that he does not wish any of their intimate kisses or cuddling to lead to sex, always holding himself back lest he somehow offend Moriarty.

     “You need not be afraid even to touch me,” Moriarty informs him on their second night in the city.

     Moran lies next to him in the dark, curled against his side, close but rather stiff in his posture, as if he is afraid to touch Moriarty inadvertently and anywhere upon his body that might be considered too risqué. “I don’t want you to… to think I’m asking for sex.”

      “Sebastian, I know, and I am not going to turn you out of bed merely for brushing my backside through my nightshirt.”

     Moran laughs at this. “I’m sorry, I just… I don’t quite know what you’re comfortable with any more.”

     “I am comfortable with _you_ ; with you being close to me; with kissing you; with embracing you. It is simply that… at this juncture I do not feel up to attempting to engage in sexual activity. Everything else, however…” Moriarty nestles further into his lovely fluffy pillow and closes his eyes. “I am quite all right with all of that.”

     “So…” Moran ponders this briefly. “If I was to put my tongue in your mouth when I kiss you, would you be all right with that?”

     “So long as you don’t do it in public, yes.” Moriarty opens one eye as he says this and smirks.

    Moran bursts out laughing again. “Well that’s my plans for tomorrow foiled then.” He rolls over the professor, bracing himself on the bed though rather than putting too much of his weight on Moriarty. “Professor, you will tell me if I ever take things too far, won’t you?”

    “Of course.” Moriarty closes both of his eyes again, not opening them even when Moran kisses him. Instead he savours the feel of Moran’s lips on his, of Moran’s tongue gently pressing against his. He notes Moran’s hesitancy still also and finds this immensely endearing. The first time they kissed again after his return from the dead had been clumsy and nervous. This is not like that; it is confident and far more assured, both of them far clearer now in where they stand with each other. But still it is slow and sweet and light, Moran transmitting to him through his lips and tongue and in the gentle caressing of Moriarty’s cheek with his hand also that he is very much enjoying kissing him, and only kissing him.

     When it reaches an end Moran rolls off him and settles beside him, snuggling close against the professor still. He rests his warm, strong hand on Moriarty’s chest, over his heart. “Professor?”

     “Mm?” Moriarty feels very pleasantly drowsy now after all their traipsing about the city and with being in this nice warm hotel room, in a very comfortable bed with his closest companion, his _husband_ even.

     “If we are married…” Moran scratches at his beard with his free hand as he ponders. “Does this mean I must take your surname now?” He chuckles again. “Or should I simply add it to my own?”

     “Sebastian Moran-Moriarty?” the professor remarks. “No Moran, it sounds absolutely dreadful.”

     “I don’t know, it has a nice ring to it I thought.”

     “I am _not_ calling you Moran-Moriarty.”

     “All right then, what about Sebastian Moriarty-Moran?” Moran beams at him.

     Moriarty glares at him. “No.”

     “How about James Moriarty-Moran then?”

     “Moran.” This said in a warning tone, although more to try to conceal Moriarty’s intense amusement than because he is actually angry. He has missed this most of all perhaps – relaxed, playful Moran who teases him; who is not deathly afraid of somehow doing something to offend him. Much as he values Moran’s concern for him, the colonel’s devotion can become rather overbearing at times.

     “James Moran-Moriarty?”

     “If you don’t stop it I will smother you with a pillow.”

     “No you wouldn’t, _husband_.”

     “All right, but I’ll still make you sleep on the floor if you don’t desist.”

     “Well, I reckon I’m out of possible combinations now anyway.” Moran yawns and stretches himself before settling back beside Moriarty. “Bloody exhausting, all this seeing the sights, isn’t it?” he remarks after a minute or two.

     His only response though is silence. Beside him Moriarty has already fallen soundly asleep. Regarding his sleeping companion with a fond smile, Moran snuggles closer against him, closes his eyes, and very shortly he too drifts away into a deep sleep. He does not, he will realise later, dream about the Reichenbach Falls now.


	9. Chapter 9

    After Bern their next significant port of call is Dijon, where they spend a further pleasant three days sight-seeing, the highlight of which is visiting the Musée des Beaux-Arts de Dijon. Much of the fine art may well be wasted on Moran but even so the colonel does refrain from making any overly uncouth remarks (even regarding the paintings featuring nudes), and he does seem to show a real interest in other historical objects. Fine art coupled with good food, wines and another very pleasant hotel makes for a delightful, albeit somewhat tiring, three days.

     On the train heading into Paris Moriarty dozes. Moran glances at him over the top of his book, a little concerned that they have been over-doing things. However Moriarty seems to be genuinely enjoying himself despite any aches and pains – he seems more relaxed; he has been smiling more; laughing more too. Moran even overheard the professor humming as he bathed this morning. His sleep has seemed less troubled also (though perhaps the cessation of Moran’s nightmares have also helped Moriarty in this regard; now he does not get disturbed by Moran’s crying out in his sleep and jerking awake). Though Moriarty has never been plagued by bad dreams as has Moran, before he often tossed and turned, sleeping fitfully. Now he seems to sleep for longer and more deeply and not be kept awake by pain or worry.

     The train slows as it pulls into the station and perhaps sensing the change of speed, Moriarty stirs slightly.

     “Professor?” Moran gently touches Moriarty’s knee. “We’re here. Are you awake?”

     “Oui mon amour.” Moriarty opens his eyes, smiling as he notes the slight blush that creeps into Moran’s cheeks.

     “Had a pleasant nap?” the colonel asks, still looking slightly flushed.

     “Perfectly enjoyable, thank you.” Moriarty stretches and straightens himself up.

     “You’re certain we’re not doing too much?” Moran enquires once the train has come to a complete stop.

      “I am certain. Besides…” Moriarty holds out his arm for Moran to take, allowing his companion to assist him to get to his feet. “For the rest of the day we shall take it easy. After we check into our hotel perhaps a little refreshment will be in order, and I think later a stroll would be pleasant to stretch our legs after the travelling, but that is all.”

     “And tomorrow?” Moran asks, helping Moriarty down from the carriage. The professor has been rather secretive about some of his plans for their time in Paris.

     “Tomorrow I thought perhaps we might visit an old acquaintance.”

     Moran narrows his eyes and flicks his gaze off to the side, trying to recollect who this could be. He can recall several acquaintances in France though he is sure that some of them are now dead or in gaol.

     “Monsieur Gaillard,” Moriarty informs him, deciding to put Moran out of his misery.

     “Ah.” Moran nods and smiles at this. “I see.” He is still smiling as he directs a porter to take their luggage to a cab, though he carries the professor’s small leather satchel - containing a few more personal items - himself.

     Paris is a city with strong memories for the pair, most of them pleasant and some with a certain _romantic_  flavour. Moriarty recollects Moran surprising him with tickets to the Parisian opera on his birthday, a most delightful and thoughtful treat. Happy times – happier times, perhaps also. He glances over at Moran who is gazing out of the window of the four-wheeler, watching the Paris scenery pass, perhaps thinking of the same events.

     They _were_ happy then, when things were less complicated perhaps; when that meddling Sherlock Holmes had yet to irrevocably spoil everything. Will they ever return to that state of bliss? Moriarty is uncertain, and yet… as he studies Moran’s face, framed against the cab window, he thinks that Moran does look contented. Not so carefree as he once looked – there are frown lines on his forehead that were not there then (Moran too, in his own way, did not escape the Reichenbach Falls unscathed) but reassured though about Moriarty’s reasons for behaving as he did, Moran is no longer so on edge. He even seems to be enjoying himself despite his clear lack of interest in much of the art and architecture Moriarty has wished to see. Moriarty has been reminded anew how fine the colonel is both as a travelling companion and as a more intimate companion also.

      The hotel is the same one they stayed at during the birthday trip and – upon entering their rooms – Moriarty feels a strange pang of melancholy as he recalls the sheer giddiness he felt then; how he almost danced along the corridor and into the bedroom, buoyed up by a night of fine music and equally excellent dining. Moran had followed him then, amused by his lover’s unusual frivolity.

      Moriarty pauses very nearly in the centre of the elaborately patterned carpet, lips pressed together, hands resting on the knob of his cane. He tries to compose himself as Moran tips the lad who brought up their bags.

     “Professor?” Moran says when they are alone, tentatively putting a hand to Moriarty’s back. “You all right?”

     “Quite all right, I was just… reminiscing.” There is no frivolity now, Moriarty thinks, and no dancing along as if he is almost lighter than air. Now he is lame and plagued with pains. Though he cares more for his brains than his looks he cannot deny either that he is not wholly pleased any more by what he sees when he looks in the mirror, or when he undresses fully. He always found the scars on Moran’s body fascinating for what they revealed about his lover’s life but on his own body such things are merely unwelcome reminders of how vulnerable he is.

     “About when we were last here?” Moran nuzzles against him from behind, gently wrapping his arms around the professor’s body, careful not to let his hands drop anywhere _suggestive_.

     “Mm.” Moriarty glances back at him.

     “Then why’d you look so downcast?” Moran asks. “We had a nice time, didn’t we?”

     “We did, but… how different things are now.”

     “We’re having a nice time now too.”

     “But things have changed, very much so.”

     “Everything changes.”

     “Everything?” Moriarty glances at him questioningly once more. “Even your regard for me?”

     “Maybe.” Moran turns Moriarty around to face him and leans in to kiss him softly upon the lips. “Maybe I care for you even more now than I did then.”

     “Are you merely saying that to humour me?”

     Moran shakes his head. “No, Professor, I’m not.” He tilts his head to kiss Moriarty gently again, loosely embracing him all the while.

     Moriarty kisses him back for several seconds but then hesitates, not pulling away entirely but holding himself back slightly. He knows that in the past here is the point where they might have leaned in more closely towards each other; begun to caress each other in other ways and then to shed clothing and lead each other towards the bed to indulge in carnal passions.

      He turns his head away but as he begins to pull away entirely he feels Moran’s hand grasping his, holding him there, not by force but with gentle persistence.

     “It’s all right,” the colonel says softly, as if he understands perfectly what Moriarty is thinking. “We’ll go get something to eat, hmm? We can go see if that place around the corner still serves that gateau you liked so much, if you want.”

     Moriarty smiles at him, grateful for his lover’s understanding and compassion. “I would like that very much.”


	10. Chapter 10

    ‘That place around the corner’ does indeed still serve the exquisite chocolate gateau of which Moriarty was so fond and the proprietor even remembers the professor and the colonel, greeting them warmly and fussing around them as he directs them to a table.

      Moran sits and drinks strong coffee while Moriarty eats a piece of the rich cake, an overindulgence considering the time of day perhaps but what are holidays for if not overindulging a little?

     “Delicious,” Moriarty announces upon finishing the slice. “Absolutely delicious.” He dabs his lips with a napkin.

      Moran grins at him over the rim of his coffee cup. He could say the same of the professor, he thinks. Moriarty does look so very delectable, sitting there all neat and proper despite all their travelling, yet with a softness, a dreaminess about his demeanour even as he closes his eyes briefly, savouring the rich flavours of his gateau. As far as Moran is concerned the scars and the greater number of grey hairs too have done nothing to impair his lover’s aesthetic appeal. “You have a few crumbs…” He gestures at first towards the professor’s face but then decides to reach over and brush the offending crumbs from Moriarty’s beard himself, letting his fingers linger there a second or two longer than is strictly necessary.

     “Moran, really,” Moriarty murmurs in mock disapproval at such behaviour in public.

     “Sorry sir.” Moran, still grinning, sinks back into his chair.

     “Finish your coffee; I think after this gateau a little stroll is in order.”

     “Right sir.”

 ~

     The stroll takes them – largely in companionable silence – through the busy streets and alongside the Seine. Moriarty walks with his arm linked through Moran’s for much of it, an act he had almost entirely avoided before this trip away for fear of showing weakness or conveying a sense of dependency upon the colonel. Now he is beginning to realise though that strength is not about constantly denying oneself things but about choosing when to request and accept them. It is reassuring then to have Moran’s lean but solid form beside him when he wishes for it. It helps, a little, to allay his fears that he is not enough and never can be enough now to satisfy Moran. He feels very old these days, a fact he despises especially when numerical age never troubled him overmuch before. But then he had not been badly injured before; he had not almost died and returned alive, yes, but damaged then. It is a blessing, certainly, that his great brain escaped the maelstrom of the Reichenbach Falls unscathed. Whatever damage he incurred in the raging water and though he was, at some point, knocked on the head, his skull was not smashed in like that boiled egg at the hands of Moran this morning (the colonel has never been especially _delicate_ in his means of dealing with his breakfast eggs). For this he supposes he must be thankful. It does not however prevent him from feeling aged and decrepit, especially when he compares himself to Moran. Though the colonel too has certainly aged in appearance since then, he remains far more youthful and sprightly than the professor.

     As they look into the Seine now Moriarty shivers. A different river, a far calmer one with no waterfalls here, but he cannot say he is especially fond of any stretch of running water still. However it would be highly illogical to cower from all water or to refuse to go within sight of a river even.

     “Are you cold?” Moran asks, though perhaps his question is merely a front, masking his true understanding of why Moriarty shudders so and he is merely being courteous, acknowledging the professor’s unease and showing his concern without drawing too much attention to its real cause to spare him humiliation.

     “A little.”

     “Perhaps we should return to the hotel.”

     “Perhaps.”

      Moran clears his throat slightly, uncertain as to whether he is seeming too controlling here in deciding what they should do. For all his concerns about Moriarty’s wellbeing and that the professor not be allowed to overdo things, he does want the professor to feel that he and not Moran is the dominant partner in their relationship, as before. “I mean, we don’t have to if you’d rather not.”

     “No, a slow walk back and then a rest before dinner; that might be for the best.”

     “Right sir.”

     “Of course, you need not rest, if you do not wish to,” Moriarty reminds him. “You are younger and fitter than I am; if you wish for some time alone to roam Paris…”

     Moran shrugs slightly. “I don’t reckon there’s much for me to want to visit alone these days.” There are places he might have gone in his younger days (his carefree days) to see the sights - not ones that involve high art or architecture, more those that involve, well, the exposure of rather a lot of bare flesh, to be blunt. Definitely not the sort of places Moriarty would want to visit. But that was then, a long time ago; a lifetime ago it seems, when Moran was free and single. Now he is more or less a married man, and – as much as it might astonish that younger version of himself; maybe even make him sneer in disbelief and mockery – he is faithful. Even the notion of simply admiring girls in costumes meant to titillate and not even touching them does not appeal much. Even that much would seem almost like a betrayal somehow, he thinks with a bit of a start at just how much he has changed.

     “Still, you need not spend every moment with me.”

     “I don’t spend _every_ moment with you, and I’m only with you a lot ‘cos we’re on holiday together.”

     “Surely you would like a little more time to yourself though?” Moriarty glances at him, genuinely curious about this. Moran by nature is a very solitary sort after all.

     “Are you trying to get rid of me?” Moran asks with a laugh.

     “Not at all.”

     “I’ll find some way to amuse myself if you want me out your way for a time.”

     “I do not want you ‘out the way’; I simply do not wish for you to become bored. I fear you rapidly grow bored of sitting around while I am obliged to rest.”

     “I always find something to do.”

     Moriarty supposes this much is true. Moran has always been good at that, filling his time with trivial tasks, even those normally undertaken by the servants (much to the displeasure sometimes of those servants, who seem to suspect either that the colonel is checking up on them or he has no faith in their ability to carry out the tasks themselves), when he is left with nothing else to do. The colonel is quite an expert at shining shoes, darning socks and even at ironing clothes and the professor is in possession of quite a few rather decent (albeit somewhat overlong) scarves knitted by Moran during some of his insomniac periods.

     “Well, perhaps you should find something to keep you occupied while I rest.” Moriarty glances at Moran again as they stroll back towards the hotel, trying to work him out. Moran has become so protective of him to the point where he can be a trifle stifling at times, so reluctant to leave Moriarty alone. “You are afraid,” he says at last.

     “Don’t be daft.”

     “Afraid if you leave me alone, what, that I will cause myself harm without your constant attention? Do you think me so frail, so broken?”

     “I know you’re not frail and you’re certainly not broken.” Moran says this with absolute conviction.

     “Then what is it you are afraid of?” Moriarty asks gently. “That if you leave me alone I will flee? Disappear?” He realises as he asks this that as much as he might wish to scoff at such fears they would also not be without a strong basis in reality. If he stopped to think about this further he might realise that really it is quite amazing that Moran took him back so readily and that he even trusts Moriarty as much as he does now, but he determinedly pushes these thoughts aside each time they try to spring up.

     Moran meets his gaze for an instant, a look that speaks volumes and strikes Moriarty to his very core as he realises, yes, that it precisely what Moran is afraid of. “Sir, don’t. Please don’t ask me that,” he says, looking away again.

     The colonel has never been fearless, far from it, only very good at facing his fears and mastering them, but this is one fear he cannot contemplate facing again and has no idea how to master.

     “Very well; we shall speak no more of such matters.” Moriarty gives Moran’s arm a brief squeeze. “What do you think you might have for dinner this evening?”

     And so they drift into a conversation about French cuisine and its relative merits and downsides compared to the culinary offerings of other countries, such conversation being rather tentative at first but soon blossoming between them. For that Moran is immensely thankful.


	11. Chapter 11

    The remainder of their first day in Paris passes quietly and peacefully. After their walk Moriarty refreshes himself with a lie down whilst Moran sits by the window and reads various newspapers, all of them in French. They have, as is customary, taken two rooms with an adjoining door between them but the other room is seeing very little use at present.

     The colonel, Moriarty observes from his position on the bed, does struggle through some of the French (spoken rather than written languages have always been more his forte). He can see Moran screwing his face up in concentration as he grapples with particular words or passages. Either assuming that Moriarty is asleep though or else merely not wishing to appear foolish in front of him, he declines to ask for help. Not wanting to humiliate his companion if it is the latter, Moriarty does not offer to assist him and pretends to be asleep when Moran comes to check on him again, though shortly genuine sleep does overtake him for a time.

     Then onto dinner, this being eaten in the hotel’s own restaurant tonight. A fine repast, although in Moriarty’s opinion the dessert is not up to the standards of the chocolate gateau of earlier and Moran privately confesses that he much preferred Mathilde Steiler’s apple tart.

     “French food… most of it’s a bit rich for me,” he admits later as they undress for bed. “Indian food, that’s what I miss.”

     “Ah yes, Indian cuisine, with that delightful thrill of having one’s taste-buds burnt off by the fiercely hot curries,” Moriarty teases him with a sly smile. “How you can miss that is beyond me.”

     Moran, laughing, throws a pillow at him. “Uncultured swine.”

     Moriarty deftly catches the pillow before it hits him in the chest. “I might say the same of you, Sebastian.”

     “Oh?” Moran advances towards him, partly undressed by now, his tie and waistcoat removed, his braces hanging down by his hips. “I’m perfectly cultured me, a right proper gentleman.”

     Moriarty raises an eyebrow at this. “However well you may masquerade as such at times, you, my dove, are as far from being a proper gentleman as a tiger is from being a domestic pussycat.” He backs towards the bed as Moran continues to approach him.

     “Am I now?” Moran nudges the professor back against the bed, pressing him down upon it. “Maybe so.” Pushing him down into the pillows as he straddles Moriarty’s body, but he is watching carefully all the while, reading the professor’s reactions, finding him amenable to this. He presses his mouth to Moriarty’s and claims an almost forceful kiss before moving his face so that he can say in a low tone in the professor’s ear, “Yet you do so like your bit of rough.”

     “Mm, indeed.” Moriarty trails his hands lightly up and down Moran’s back, feeling the strength of him; the lean hardness of his muscles through his shirt.

     When Moran draws back his head to look down at Moriarty there is an intensity in his eyes, the darkness of lust; deep desire, and it borders on being too much for the professor to bear. Once more they reach this situation where ordinarily perhaps they might have expressed their regard for each other now through sexual intimacy, and part of Moriarty would like to once more, but… it is too soon, he thinks; he cannot bring himself to try it again, not yet. A shiver of, well, it is not quite fear – he is not _afraid_ of his companion – but unease runs through him.

     But Moran is holding himself back, he can see that. That tension in his body is him keeping himself in check, refusing to let himself get carried away. He is not demanding sex; he is not even _asking_ for it – this does not surprise Moriarty at all. What does surprise him though is how content the colonel still seems to be with him; to be close to him, teased into a state of some excitement (Moriarty can certainly feel _that_ , even if Moran has tried to shift position slightly to spare the professor) but, when he rolls off Moriarty to lie beside him, still he seems relaxed and amused. All of this… it makes Moriarty feel _safe_. As quickly as it had arrived, the unease disappears.

     “Do you really?” Moran asks, glancing sideways at Moriarty across the pillow.

     “Do I really what?”

     “Like your bit of rough?”

     “I have always liked you very much.”

     “No, but, I mean… did you never want some toff, some intellectual fancy man who understands all your higher mathematics and astronomy and all that and who rolls his Rs and is all eloquent, rather than someone like me?”

      “You were hardly born in the gutter yourself.”

      “No, but…” Moran grimaces at the reminder of his highly-regarded father. He did almost everything possible to rebel against him. So much time spent running away from school; playing rough with the children who lived more or less on the streets; later spending time in the company of soldiers from the lower classes… these things have whittled him into something totally unlike the man his father wanted him to be. A total waste of all the tutoring; the Eton and Oxford education; the money invested in him Augustus Moran would say. How ungrateful Sebastian has been for all he was given, but then (Augustus would add with a sneer) what else could one expect from such a boy? He knew Sebastian was rotten from the instant he saw him.

     “We have been through this before.” Moriarty lifts his hand and puts it to Moran’s face. “What use is a man who is interested in my mathematical work if he cannot understand the other side of me? Or a man who has perfect grammar and enunciation if he has no brains to work with? Or one who is intelligent but cannot take orders from me and cannot be relied upon to carry out the work I need him to do? Furthermore… if he simply does not interest me? My interest in you to begin with… it was primarily business-related, no more. I did not expect to develop such a personal attachment to you also, or to find such a pleasing intimate companion, but I did, along with finding out just how much I could rely upon you when it came to business matters. I have always admired you, Moran, for your spirit; your refusal to bow to the norms and rules when they do not suit you. No you are not entirely ‘proper’ and that is precisely how I like you.”

     Moran turns onto his side to better look up at the professor. “D’ya like me cos I’m handsome too?” he asks with a grin.

     Moriarty rolls his eyes slightly. “Yes Moran.”

     “Good.” Moran continues to grin at him.

     “Why are you regarding me so?” Moriarty asks finally.

     Moran shrugs. “Dunno, just… thinking, how handsome you are too.”

     Moriarty glances away. “Hardly.”

     “You are.” Moran sits up straighter and tilts his head, doglike, trying to draw the professor’s gaze back onto him, finally succeeding. He thinks at first he may be mistaken, but he is sure the professor’s eyes glitter with amusement, despite the sombre look upon the rest of his face.

     “I fear your copious alcohol consumption during my absence may have affected your eyesight.”

     Moran draws himself up to sit propped up against the headboard now, his knees pulled up. Somehow the gesture, despite the grey in his hair and the lines in his face, makes him look very childlike, very young. “Nothing wrong with my eyesight. I can still shoot a man between the eyes from a _very_ long way away.” He laughs, realising in this context it seems perhaps a trifle absurd to make this claim. “I mean, I could do so, should the need arise again.”

     Moriarty smiles and tactfully declines to remind Moran of the last occasion when he attempted to shoot a man between the eyes – this remains a sore point for the colonel. “I don’t doubt it, pigeon.” He tugs Moran over towards him so he may kiss him upon the lips again. He remains cupping Moran’s face for some seconds after the kiss finishes before finally he lets his hand drop onto the bed. “Go and finish getting ready for bed,” he says.


	12. Chapter 12

    Moriarty awakens slowly, taking perhaps half a minute to grasp that the space beside him in the bed is empty. Hearing movement behind him he opens his eyes and glances back to note Moran sitting there, fully dressed and apparently in the process of tying his bootlaces.

     “Moran?”

     “It’s all right.” Moran, with one boot still unlaced, stands abruptly and strolls towards the bed. “I’m going outside for a smoke; didn’t want to stink the room out.” He brushes Moriarty’s shoulder gently with his fingers. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

     “Mm, very well.” Moriarty closes his eyes and turns back over, lapsing into silence as Moran finishes tying his bootlace. “Put your gloves on!” he calls over his shoulder, just as Moran is about to leave.

  ~

     It is cold out here, causing Moran’s breath to steam in the bitter air, looking like clouds of smoke rising from between his lips even before he gets his cigarette lit. Good job the professor reminded him about his gloves. It’s quiet too, with only a few people going about their business but too chilly and too early for there to be anyone casually strolling or waiting about. Moran is left alone to smoke in peace, until halfway through his cigarette a thin figure approaches him.

~

      Moriarty, missing Moran’s comforting warmth in the bed with him perhaps, has risen by now. Wrapping himself in his dark blue dressing gown he moves to the window to look out at the street below. There he sees Moran lift his cigarette to his lips and take a pull on it, and he smiles at this. His companion is really quite endearing in his fixed habits. But he notes something else also, something that causes his smile to fade. As Moran shifts slightly on the spot he realises that his lover is not alone. The young man standing next to him, rather closer to him than Moriarty feels is wholly appropriate, seems familiar somehow, though it takes the professor a moment to place him. It is the young porter – little more than a boy really – who brought their luggage up. Moriarty had barely paid him any heed then, leaving such matters to Moran to deal with, but perhaps he should have paid closer attention. Certainly the young man seems to be paying Moran a great deal of attention. If only he knew what they were saying but even if Moriarty’s capacity for lip-reading was better than it is, from this height and angle and when for much of their conversation the pair have their backs to him he could learn nothing of importance from their words. Still, their body language says much to him. Even if he remains less adept than Moran at reading such language, he cannot remain entirely ignorant of sexual attraction between two others.

    If Moriarty _was_ able to hear them though, if perhaps he was in possession of superhuman hearing, or if he was somehow able to detach his soul or spirit (call it what you will) from his flesh and let it fly out of the window to hover, unseen, above the pair, then what he would hear at this instant is:

      “If you need anything, you let me know, no?” from the young porter, Henri, the offer made in heavily accented English. “Anything at all.” He winks as he puts his hand briefly on Moran’s arm and smiles, and Moran grins at him.

     “I appreciate the offer, truly,” he says, before taking another drag on his cigarette as he regards the boy. Nineteen perhaps, twenty at most, dark-eyed, dark-haired, smooth-skinned and immensely attractive. Risky to be speaking of such matters outdoors, but then the risk is small at such an hour and besides, it adds to the excitement he feels at such a proposition and puts a certain tingle in his loins.

      Is Henri’s attraction to Moran genuine? Of course he is primarily motivated by a desire for money – with a need to supplement his porter’s income he is hardly offering his services entirely for free – and yet… there is a look in his eyes that Moran, with his almost boundless experience, believes that even the best prostitutes cannot fake: one of genuine attraction. Tempting, very tempting indeed. Were he to take Henri up on his offer, to lie with him, it’s a risk, of course it is. _Homosexuality_ is hardly well regarded even in this country, however liberal it may be compared to Britain, but then sodomy is not illegal here and that fact alone significantly reduces the chances that Henri might be trying to lure him into some manner of trap. His offer is very probably entirely genuine. Moran in his former life almost certainly would have gone to bed with the lad and spent a few hours at least enjoying his company immensely.

     “I’m afraid I must decline though,” he says, tapping a little ash from his cigarette off into the breeze, mindful to avoid it blowing in Henri’s face.

      Henri pulls back from him a little at these words, more confused than affronted at the quiet but firm rejection. “Oh?”

     “I have commitments.”

     Henri gives him another coy smile. “You cannot be married, surely, monsieur?”

     Moran glances unwittingly up towards the window of the room he shares with the professor. At once Moriarty jerks back, even though he is sure Moran cannot possibly see him through the curtains anyway.

     “Close enough,” Moran says.

      “You and…?” Henri puts his hand over his mouth briefly. “I am sorry, monsieur, I did not… I did not realise you and he were… so close. Had I known I would not… please forgive me.” He looks away, his cheeks suffused crimson. Moran is sure he cannot fake that embarrassment either.

     “There’s nothing to forgive, honest.”

~  

    Moriarty pulls himself away entirely from the window and sits down in the nearest chair, wrapping his dressing gown a little tighter around him. Presently he hears Moran re-entering and soon the colonel is approaching him, smelling of cold, damp streets and cigarette smoke.

     “You’re up already; I thought you’d still be in bed.” Moran peels off his gloves and tosses them onto the side-table before depositing his hat alongside them. “You all right?” He walks over to Moriarty, pace slowing as he nears him; tilting his head to regard the professor.

     “Mm.” Moriarty stiffly accepts the kiss Moran places on his cheek. Moran’s lips are cool and dry, not unpleasantly so, though the sudden thought that spears through Moriarty’s mind – of those lips pressed against another’s, perhaps the lips of the young porter; perhaps those of someone else entirely – is much less pleasant.

     “What’s wrong?” Moran stoops before him as he asks this, trying to meet Moriarty’s lowered gaze.

     Moriarty rises from his chair, still holding his dressing gown tightly around him as he moves past Moran, pointedly not looking at him. “I saw you, out there, with the porter.”

     Moran narrows his eyes briefly. “We were just talking.”

     “And flirting.” The professor’s voice is strangely devoid of emotion here.

     Moran laughs. “I weren’t flirting.”

     Now Moriarty regards his companion. “I may not experience such attraction as you do, Colonel, but I am not _entirely_ oblivious to that attraction between you and others. You cannot help but flirt with some people.”

     “All right.” Moran shrugs off his overcoat and tosses it over an empty chair. “I talked to him a bit; he was attracted to me; he offered me… certain services, if I wanted ‘em.”

     “Why did you not take him up on his offer?”

     “Because I am loyal to you and I will not lie with others.” Moran fixes his gaze upon Moriarty’s as he says this.

     Moriarty regards him steadily for a second or two. Moran does not even attempt to deny that he was attracted to Henri; he does not deny that a part of him was very tempted by his offer even, and for that Moriarty is grateful. The knowledge that Moran still remains sexually attracted to others, even if he never acts upon that attraction, causes him an odd pang somewhere he cannot quite place (some might suggest it is in his heart, but that would be foolish – the heart is merely a muscle, no more) but it can be endured. For Moran to quite deliberately lie to him though and deny that he ever experiences such attraction for others would wound him far more deeply.

     The professor glances away sadly.


	13. Chapter 13

    “Are you angry with me?” Moran asks, unable to entirely place Moriarty’s emotion. The professor is very quiet, very constrained, which usually speaks of fury, but this has a different texture to it somehow. Moriarty does not seem furious so much as forlorn.

      “No, chick, I am not angry with you.” Moriarty turns away and walks over to the window. Silhouetted there against the silvery early morning light, he puts his back to the colonel as he looks down into the street. The porter has gone now, most likely indoors to get on with his proper work instead of fraternising with the guests and offering them more _unofficial_ services. “If you wish…” Moriarty hesitates, swallowing, seeming almost to choke briefly. “If you wish to lie with him then go and lie with him.”

     Moran spits out another incredulous laugh. “Professor?”

     “I am giving you my consent. You would not be being disloyal to me.”

     “Of course I bloody would.”

      Moriarty glances back at him. “I am giving you my permission, Colonel. How is that then disloyalty?”

     “Because you don’t want me to really, and regardless of that, _I_ don’t want to.” Moran takes three steps closer towards Moriarty before stopping in front of him, very carefully not touching him. “Maybe if Kitty was with us… maybe I’d still like to lie with her, like I did before, if all of us were willing, but Kitty’s the only exception. I certainly don’t want to fuck some near-stranger. I might have been content with that once but not now, not any more, not since I…” Still it seems so strange to him to give voice to the word _love_. “Since I… fell in love with you.”

     “You need to relieve your physical urges still.”

     “I can manage that perfectly well with my own hand; I don’t need to bed some pretty young thing for that. Professor!” Moran reaches imploringly to touch Moriarty but the professor pulls back from him. “Please, stop this.” Denied the contact with his lover, Moran runs both hands through his own hair. “Stop assuming that… that I need sex to be happy. I want sex with you, not with some stranger. What we had together was… it was better than anything I could ever have with someone else. Anything else’d pale in comparison with what you and I… what we used to do.”

     It isn’t enough any more, just sex, and that realisation had shocked him more than a little, but it is true. He had long since come to value the deep true intimacy of the sex with Moriarty over his casual sexual encounters which provided brief satiation of his lust but no more and which overall left him feeling unsatisfied on some deeper, perhaps more spiritual, level. More than that though, he values the other forms of intimacy they share, the physical contact and closeness that does not involve sex; the emotional intimacy also.

     “Yes,” Moriarty says tersely, “what we _used_ to do. What though if I – if we – can never do that again?”

     “Then I still don’t want to fuck someone else.”

     “You need sex.”

     “I don’t _need_ it! I need _you_!” Moran cries, tugging at his hair in exasperation. “I need… I need to know you care for me still; that it’s me you want to be with and not someone else, or that you’d be far happier alone. I need… I don’t know! I just need you, not sex with you if you don’t… if you can’t… I’m happy with you, Professor, so long as I know it’s me you want, and I am not gonna fuck someone else when that’d make neither of us happy. Don’t try to be self-sacrificing, Professor, it don’t suit you.”

    “You would prefer it if I was possessive instead? If I forbade you from ever so much as looking at another person?”

    “I’d prefer it if you stopped trying to tell me what’s best for me. Please…” Moran holds out his hands to Moriarty, needing to touch him now; needing that physical connection between them to reassure him that the professor is not lost to him.

     Moriarty moves stiffly, awkwardly, into Moran’s embrace.

     “Professor,” Moran says rather wearily, holding him close. “We cannot proceed if you say you accept what I tell you and then go on to demonstrate that truly you don’t believe me at all – if every time I so much as glance at some attractive young man or woman you’re gonna assume that means I want to f- that I want to lie with ‘em.”

     “I want to believe you,” Moriarty tells him, not looking at Moran, resting his head on Moran’s shoulder. “I do, Sebastian.”

      “So why can’t you?” Moran rubs the professor’s back through his dressing gown.

      “How can I believe anything any more when everything has been turned upon its head? I believed myself to be… better than I proved myself to be.” Moriarty’s fingers clench tightly, unwittingly pressing hard against Moran’s back. “I cannot even rely upon myself.”

      “So you can’t rely on me either? You can’t believe anything I tell you?” Moran withdraws to arm’s length to look into Moriarty’s face. “Do you not truly believe me when I tell you how much you mean to me?”

     “I believe you.” Moriarty gives him a small, fleeting smile. “I do believe that.”

     “Do you trust me still?”

     “It is not a matter of trust – I do trust you still, and I was not questioning your loyalty to me. I was not accusing you of having already had relations elsewhere.”

     “No, merely telling me to get my leg over with someone else, despite me telling you I ain’t interested in that; that I’d give up sex entirely if you can’t have it with me.”

     “I simply do not wish you to be unhappy.”

     “I am not unhappy. I am telling you Professor, I care for you; I want you with me. That’s what I want whether or not we ever have sex again, and I ain’t gonna change my mind two days down the line or two weeks down the line or two months or two years or two _decades_ from now. You make me happy; fucking some stranger would not make me happy.” He nuzzles against the professor’s neck, burying his face in the juncture between shoulder and neck for a moment. “Come back to bed,” he says at last.

     “You are already up and dressed.”

     “It don’t matter; it’s early yet. I’m sorry I got up and left you, I shouldn’t have. Just come back to bed for a while.”

     Moriarty turns and stares at Moran for a few seconds, trying to discern his intention. “Why?”

     “Can I not just hold you for a time?”

     “I suppose…” Moriarty sounds far from convinced of the merits of this, but he trudges back towards the bed anyway. Discarding his dressing gown, he slips under the covers.


	14. Chapter 14

    After removing his jacket and shoes, Moran slides into the bed alongside Moriarty and draws him into his arms. “Maybe you don’t trust your own judgement entirely any more,” he says as he holds Moriarty to his breast, “but if we are to get anywhere then you have to trust _me_ when I tell you what I want and don’t want. I know what I want and I want _you_.” He kisses the top of Moriarty’s head very gently.

      Moriarty sighs softly but turns his face towards Moran, not away from him, and curls a bit closer against him. “Even when I am not the man I once was?” he asks finally.

     “I want you no matter what.”

      “I thought myself so very clever; so masterful; so much more intelligent than everyone else.”

     “You still are.”

     “Am I really? When I was undone not by some magnificently cunning scheme of that great mind which I know Sherlock Holmes possesses, but by a mere wrestling match with the cocaine-addled detective on a muddy path beside a waterfall? Not even in some elegant fight! It was little more than scrabbling about in the dirt!” Moriarty’s words are filled with barely constrained rage and contempt, not merely directed towards the detective but at himself.

     “Yes, but you survived, you came back.”

     “With almost everything I had worked for gone and my name and reputation in tatters even though I was charged with _nothing_.” Moriarty stares off into space miserably.

      “Not everything,” Moran points out, rather tentatively and quietly. “That is to say…” He coughs slightly and speaks more loudly. “You did not lose _everything_. You still have me, sir.”

     Moriarty glances up at Moran’s face and after a second or two of stern contemplation a smile breaks across his features. “Yes, I still have you, my sweet, loyal boy.” He reaches up and brushes Moran’s cheek with the backs of his fingers.

     “You are still my master,” Moran says. He catches Moriarty’s hand gently and kisses his fingers. “You’re still my professor. You always will be, no matter what anyone else thinks of you.”

     Moran has always lived in the shadow of another whether it be his father or those who were above him in rank in the army, then latterly the professor, but that is really how he has always preferred it. Though self-assured, even cocky, and often solitary, the colonel has to admit that he is most comfortable when he feels he has someone else in overall control of him. Moriarty though is the only one of those who ever truly earned and deserves his loyalty and devotion; the only one who tried to nurture him and his talents; the only one who properly praised and rewarded him for his successes. Continuing to refer to him as ‘Professor’ and ‘sir’ throughout their relationship… these are both a mark of Moran’s respect for Moriarty and an acknowledgement of how content he is to let the professor be his master.

     “And we have money enough to live comfortably still,” he points out.

     “Yes, I suppose we do.”

     “All is not lost, Professor, and much of what was lost can still be recovered. Your health continues to improve, for one thing.”

     “I suppose… I have much to be grateful for.” Moriarty settles his head against Moran’s chest, his ear over the colonel’s heart, in much the same position Moran often favours when lying upon Moriarty’s chest. He can understand now why the colonel seems to find it soothing, with the warmth of Moran’s body against his; the slow but steady rise and fall of his chest as Moran breathes; the rhythmic beat of his lover’s heart. There is something immensely comforting about all of this and how all of these things continue on regardless of what goes on in the world outside; regardless of whether or not people think badly of the pair. In moments like this it is as if there is just the two of them alone in the world, together, and nothing else matters. Briefly he can almost forget everything that has occurred, everything that has changed, and imagine that things are as they have always been, Moriarty with his Moran; with the one person in the world he feels able to be open with; showing the side of himself he never shows to anyone else and free from the fear of being judged or jeered at for that.  

     “So do I,” Moran whispers as he cradles the professor in his arms.

     Silence settles over the pair for a time, before Moriarty finally speaks again. “Do you still wish to go to Gaillard’s? Does the idea of… the rings… does it not seem foolish?”

     “Why, do _you_ think it foolish?”

     “No. Perhaps…” Moriarty pauses. “Oddly romantic,” he allows at last, which is true enough; if James Moriarty is to be involved in anything with a romantic nature it could only ever be _oddly_ romantic. After all, romantic feelings and participating in a romantic relationship are not things that come naturally to him, as much as he cares for Moran. The notion too that he might want some physical symbol of his possession; his ownership; his mastery even over Moran is not such a strange one. He cannot be surprised either that Moran desires such a thing, even if for slightly more sentimental reasons. He has long known his seemingly cold-blooded, amoral right hand man is actually peculiarly sensitive, even sweet, in many regards. “But not foolishly so. I merely question whether it is appropriate, given our conversation this morning; if you do not now think… my trust in you is not sufficient.”

      “We don’t have to if you don’t wish it.” Moran idly strokes Moriarty’s side. “But I think… having a ring’d be a reminder of what we do have already, wouldn’t it? We both have our fears and our doubts about ourselves but, well, we’re still here, together. It’ll be a symbol of that but also… a reminder too of what we can develop from what we have already, what we can work towards achieving. It’ll be something physical we can look at when we both have our doubts, when we doubt ourselves more than each other even; something to remind us that even if things are not entirely what they were, the rest of the world tried to tear us apart but we overcame that, so we can overcome anything. Besides…” He grins. “I assume you ain’t thinking of anything too showy for these rings, just like a signet ring or something, nothing that’d look obvious as to its true meaning, so doesn’t the idea too of wearing these in front of everyone appeal to you? Flaunting our private relationship to them without them even knowing it?”

      This thought causes a smile to flit across Moriarty’s face. “An intriguing idea, my boy, very intriguing indeed.” Mocking and sneering at society and its rules and regulations and hypocrisy has always appealed to him. He recalls how they have sat together in their box at the opera and secretly held hands during the performance. How they have gone out in public together with some sign of Moriarty’s full domination of Moran (perhaps a mark on his skin where Moriarty had bitten his lover’s shoulder when he climaxed inside him; perhaps some particular article of _inappropriate_ clothing he had ordered Moran to wear) hidden beneath his sensible, appropriate clothing. How while pretending to be bachelors living together for the sake of convenience and platonic companionship (not that these are not themselves true, in some way) they have been intimate in countless ways together in private. So yes, the notion of wearing a ring on his finger which others will view purely as a small act of vanity when really it speaks of far more than this does appeal.

     Moran lets his eyes slip closed. “It’s convenient we share the same last initial.”

     “It is indeed.”

     Another small way in which the pair have always seemed to slot together perfectly, despite their many differences.

     “Know what else M stands for?” Moran asks.

     “I assume you have something specific in mind rather than wanting me to go through the entire relevant segment of the dictionary?” Moriarty smiles as he glances up at him.

     Moran opens his eyes again. “Master,” he says, “’cos you are my master, you always have been; you always will be.”

     Moriarty smiles again as he threads his fingers through Moran’s, letting their intertwined hands rest together atop the bedcovers. “I know something else that M can stand for.”

     “Oh?”

     Moriarty grins at his companion. “ _Mine_ ,” he says, and Moran too breaks into a grin at this, realising that this is no mere one-way thing – as he is Moriarty’s, Moriarty is his too.

     “Yes,” he says, still grinning. “ _Mine_.”


	15. Chapter 15

   “These rings then,” Moriarty says as he strolls with Moran towards Philippe Gaillard’s jewellery shop. “They should be completely identical, or different?”

     “I thought they’d be identical,” Moran says. “It seems more fitting that way, and you should design them, Professor.”

     “You don’t wish to help with the design?” Moriarty asks, glancing at the colonel.

      “Help, perhaps, but I think it should be your decision overall. You’re in charge, after all. Remember all that honouring and obeying you and all that.”

      Moriarty smiles. “You were not always _entirely_ obedient in the past.”

     “Yeah, well…” Moran breaks into a grin. “You’d soon get bored of me if I was.”

 ~

      The shop owned by Philippe Gaillard, just off the rue Saint-Honoré, is a fairly nondescript place, somewhat shabbier too than when last Moriarty visited. The sign hanging outside seems faded and some of the paint has begun to peel. Upon entry into the shop the proprietor too is looking rather older and greyer also. However who amongst them is not, the professor muses. Still Gaillard’s face lights up when he peers at his customers through his gold-rimmed spectacles and recognises them. At once he slips from his stool where he is cleaning some cheap jewellery behind the counter and moves to welcome them.

     “My god, can it be, Professeur? Come in, come in, please!” At once the rather diminutive fellow is shaking hands enthusiastically with Moriarty, then with Moran, but his gaze lingers on Moriarty, peering up at him. “I heard the stories of your death, Professeur, and it saddens me, truly, but then, later, I hear that you have risen again, like Lazarus, and I see now it is true!”

     “Absolutely true, my dear Gaillard.” Moriarty smiles and chats amicably as Gaillard fusses around them – despite still suffering his aches and pains he is all charm with the jeweller. Gaillard is one of the few men with criminal leanings that he associated with directly rather than through Moran or some other intermediary, so that the jeweller became, well, not quite a friend precisely, but at least an acquaintance he regarded positively. He valued Gaillard though not merely for his skill and willingness to handle and reshape precious metals and stones of rather _dubious_ origin nor even for his discretion but also for his craftsmanship, his skilful way of weaving together gold and silver and jewels into simple but elegant forms.  

     “You need not shut up shop for us,” Moriarty tells him as Gaillard turns over the sign and locks the door.

     “It does not matter for a little while.” Gaillard smiles but gives a small, rueful sigh. “Business is not what it was anyway. It has not been since you, well… since the old days.” Briefly he looks sad as he contemplates his fading fortunes but he brightens at once at the prospect of dealing with the professor again. “But come, come, I shall make us some coffee and you must tell me what brought you to my humble little shop.”

     Over coffee in the back room (with Moran grimacing at the drink’s bitterness), Moriarty outlines what they came to Gaillard for.

     “I was thinking signet rings, a matched pair, gold, nothing too ornate, just with a simple letter M. You could make these?”

     Gaillard smiles broadly. “Please, Professeur, I had thought you might wish to challenge me.”

     Moriarty smiles too. “But could you make these very soon?”

     “Of course, of course. I can have them ready by tomorrow, perhaps even tonight if they are not too ornate. Alas, I am hardly – what do you say – snowed under with orders.”

    “Well, perhaps during our stay in Paris we might think up something slightly more complicated for you to make also, do you think Moran?” Moriarty glances towards his companion who has taken now to wandering about the cluttered room.

     “Mm,” Moran says in a somewhat non committal way. He pokes idly through a tray of tarnished silver rings, not much concerned with the purchasing of any further jewellery. He is also perfectly content to let Moriarty take charge in the matter of the rings.

     Moriarty sits back in his chair and sips his coffee, showing every indication of enjoying its taste. “But first, the rings.”

    “Indeed, indeed.” Gaillard stands and searches around amidst various scattered invoices, broken bits of jewellery, tools and assorted other detritus until he finds his pad of paper and a pencil. “Something like this?” he asks, after sketching out a design.

     “Yes, but… perhaps just a little more…” Moriarty holds out his hand to take the pencil and makes a couple of small modifications to the drawing himself. Colonel?” He holds the pad up for Moran’s inspection.

     Moran scrutinises it for a moment. “Yes sir.”

     “May I ask, sirs,” Gaillard says, taking back the pad and pencil from Moriarty, “these rings, these signify something special? Perhaps, Professeur, you and the colonel here… you are venturing into a partnership again, back into your old line of work, yes?”

     “Something of the kind,” Moriarty replies.

     “Then you will be sure to remember your old friend Gaillard again in future, should you require someone to, ah, deal in jewellery again, yes?”

     “Of course.” Moriarty smiles at him. “I never forget to repay those who have served me well.”

     Behind Gaillard, Moran gives a slight smirk at this remark. It is also true that the professor does not forget to pay back those who cross him either. Somewhere (neither of the pair shall ever reveal where) there is a grave, one which lacks any kind of stone or marker, no name, nothing to identify its occupant either by his given name or by his chosen _nom de plume_ , Fred Porlock. Gaillard though has always been reliable and doubtless Moriarty will indeed keep him in mind if he decides to return to their former line of work. However for now their business with the jeweller is all perfectly above board.

     Odd that, Moran finds himself musing as he watches Moriarty in discussion with Gaillard over the sketch, not that they have not returned to their life of crime so far but that he does not miss it. In fact since the professor has returned to him, miraculously answering his unspoken pleas (one might almost call them prayers except that Moran believes in no god) the colonel has found himself perfectly content to live a largely _legal_ lifestyle, not yearning for the excitement of their former activities at all. Perhaps there is a part of him that even fears a return to that life, in case in doing so this causes the professor to be wrenched from him once more. He has survived losing Moriarty once already; the prospect of losing him a second time… does not bear thinking about.

     Moriarty glances up again, noticing the sudden solemnity of Moran’s expression. “Moran,” he murmurs, “stop hovering and come, sit.”

     Obediently Moran takes his place beside the professor, glad for his lover’s perception. Moriarty – in essence if not with full clarity – knows what thoughts have suddenly gone through Moran’s mind and though he cannot presently indulge in any real display of affection – he cannot even touch Moran at this time – even this request is enough, reminding Moran as it draws him closer that the professor is here; he is alive and he is not intending to go anywhere again.

     “What do you think of this for the initial?” the professor asks him, tapping the topmost sheet on the pad of paper with his finger. “Too ornate?”

     Moran looks where Moriarty indicates. Moriarty has drawn out the letter M in a firm, precise hand, similar to the style of his signature. “No, I’d say it’s about perfect, Professor.”

     “You don’t think it should be more… simplistic?”

     “No, I think that is most appropriate.” Moran rather relishes the notion of having Moriarty’s handwriting, as it were, upon his finger. It seems far more fitting to him that the pair of rings should bear this letter that is most personal to Moriarty rather than having some more abstract design that means little to either of them, or even that he himself should scrawl out the letter M for it in his own much less neat handwriting.

     “Well then.” Moriarty leans back in his chair again and beams at Gaillard. “I think that settles it then.”


	16. Chapter 16

    After measuring Moriarty and Moran’s fingers, Gaillard has promised them faithfully that he shall have the rings ready by the late afternoon, the designs being really quite straightforward, though this leaves them with ample time before they can return to collect them. A visit to the Palais Garnier occupies them for a large portion of the rest of the day, though not this time to attend an opera. Moriarty instead wishes to see the library and museum of the Paris Opera. Moran has no especial yearning to do so but nor does he have anything against such an idea either so he accompanies the professor contentedly, quietly reflecting upon some very pleasant trips to the opera in the past. Moran has not always paid a great deal of attention to the singing or to the music or to details such as costume or scenery (nor even, as Moriarty might have expected, to the ample bosoms or other anatomical features of some of the performers), preferring instead to think upon the feel of the professor’s hand holding his. It was something so simple but which seemed somehow more illicit and more thrilling than if they had engaged in sexual intercourse in their box – the way in which Moriarty carefully peeled off his white glove, baring the fingers of one hand only, holding this out for Moran to take; Moran copying him, removing his own glove so that their bare fingers could intertwine. Sometimes they remained like this for only moments, sometimes for almost an entire performance, with Moran relishing this casual yet hugely significant act of closeness and intimacy done in a public setting.

     In the past though he would have been hard-pressed to understand just why such a fairly small, innocuous act seemed so significant; later he would come to realise that it was because he had never really bothered to merely hold hands with someone before. Colonel Sebastian Moran – tiger hunter, soldier, generally regarded as a bit of a cad also – was far more likely to bed someone than to simply hold their hand. Never before had he had such a connection with someone, where he craved physical contact with them and did not expect it every time to lead to sex; stranger still, that frequently he did not even _want_ it to do so.

      It was one of the things he missed the most when Moriarty was gone, not the sex, just the touch of the professor’s hand against his; the warmth of his palm; the smoothness of his fingers; the controlled strength of his grip. Occasionally, when his unconscious mind was at its cruellest perhaps, he had dreamt of walking with the professor, strolling companionably along with him through a beautiful sunny park (was it London, or Paris, or some place his mind had simply conjured up? He was never sure), hand in hand with him, blissfully happy, only to awaken with his fingers clenched around thin air and that crushing weight of hurt and bitterness in his heart as he remembered that it was only a dream and the professor was – so he believed then – lying still in his watery tomb.

     But the professor came back for him, clawing his way out of the grave Holmes tried to put him in, and while things are not as they once were they are getting there by degrees, back to living almost as a married couple. Though at times he fears that having the professor back is still merely a dream – that sooner or later he will awaken and find out that he has only imagined it after all – and despite the conflict that has arisen between them from time to time, Moran is happy to have Moriarty back with him – really, truly happy.

     “Are you daydreaming, my dove?” Moriarty asks softly, interrupting Moran’s reminiscing. He has an amused look upon his face - a twinkle of amusement in his eyes even though he does not quite smile with his mouth - as he regards Moran who is standing there leaning against the wall.

    “Just… thinking about some of our trips to the opera.” Moran straightens up and steps closer to Moriarty’s side.

     “And these were pleasant recollections?”

     “Very pleasant.”

     “You are bored, aren’t you?”

     “Not at all.”

     “Come now, you do not let your mind wander so unless you are bored.” Moriarty holds out his arm for Moran to take. “We shall visit the Louvre tomorrow. Perhaps that may be a little more to your taste, or at least it may provide a great deal more to distract you. For now though perhaps a little refreshment is in order, then we shall return to see if Monsieur Gaillard is ready for us.”

 ~

     The day is beginning to draw to a close as they walk arm in arm back towards Gaillard’s shop. The streetlamps are lit now, lighting up the few specks of sleety-snow that spit from the grey skies and golden light spills out too from the windows of Monsieur Gaillard’s shop, illuminating the frost that is beginning to form upon the panes of glass. Chilly but rather picturesque, Moriarty thinks.

     “Ah, Professeur, Colonel, come, come, it is done.” Gaillard greets them with broad smiles and bustles them through the shop, past the counter with its glittering rings and brooches under thick glass, through to the back room. “Can I bring you more coffee?”

     “No, thank you, we’ve only recently taken refreshment,” Moriarty answers, carefully removing his fine black leather gloves.

      “Well at least sit, sit down, I shall fetch your rings.”

     “You’re a fast worker, Gaillard,” Moran remarks to him, bringing up the rear behind Moriarty.

     “Always, always.” Gaillard beams even more in response to this. “Of course, gentleman, do not think that because I am fast that I have compromised on quality, no!”

    “The thought never crossed my mind, my dear Gaillard,” Moriarty assures him. “I am certain that your work is always of the finest quality.” He sinks gratefully into the chair that Gaillard proffers, although when Moran looks at him with some concern and begins to move towards him Moriarty waves him away airily. His legs are beginning to pain him, adding to his fatigue, but he does not want Moran fussing over him, especially not in front of Gaillard.

     “Well then, here you are gentleman.” Gaillard cannot quite keep back a small flourish, a little wave of his hands, as he takes out the pair of rings from the cupboard where he has placed them for safekeeping and unrolls the dark cloth to display them.

     Two polished gold rings, gleaming warmly in the lamp light, simple but elegantly made, both engraved with an identical letter M. The only difference between them is a small matter of the sizing but even this is hardly discernable to the naked eye.

       “Very fine work,” Moriarty remarks, carefully picking up one of the rings and examining it. “Beautifully done, do you not think, Colonel?” He hands the ring to Moran and picks up the other ring to examine for himself.

     “Yes sir, very nicely done,” Moran says.

      Gaillard nods slightly at this, still smiling his broad smile. “Very kind of you to say so, gentlemen, but of course now you must try them on.”

      Moriarty makes a brief pretence of comparing the ring he holds to the one in Moran’s palm, although he already knows precisely which is which. “I believe I have yours, Colonel; here… give me your hand.”

     Moran puts out his left hand, allowing Moriarty to hold it gently as he slips the ring onto the little finger. It slides on with just enough resistance to indicate it will fit perfectly, neither slipping off of its own accord nor being uncomfortably tight.

    “Well, Moran?” Moriarty raises his eyes to meet Moran’s gaze. He is still holding Moran’s hand, Moran’s fingers lightly resting against his.

     Moran grins. “Perfect, sir.” Only after a couple more seconds does he look down at the ring he still clasps in his right hand. “I must have yours then, Professor. May I?” He holds it up, the ring catching the light again as he does so.

     “Of course.” The professor lets Moran gently take his left hand and carefully slip the ring onto his little finger. Like Moran’s, the ring fits exactly, settling snugly into place as Moran eases it on. Moriarty holds Moran’s gaze once more as Moran flicks his eyes up from the ring to the professor’s face.  “Also perfect,” Moriarty says with a smile.

     Gaillard though seems rather oblivious to the fact Moriarty and Moran’s attention is directed more towards each other than at him. “Excellent, excellent!” he cries, clapping his hands slightly. Even with such a relatively simple commission he takes immense pride in his work and it delights him to see the rings upon his client’s fingers as intended, even if he is largely ignorant of the true significance of the jewellery.

     Only reluctantly does Moran relinquish his hold on the professor’s hand, as Moriarty turns his attention to the somewhat mundane matter of paying Gaillard. He allows Moriarty to attend to this without quibbling over just who is paying. The money for this, as indeed for the expenses of their European jaunt, comes from a shared bank account. Once, though he had been even then largely financially dependent upon the professor, Moran had been paid a set salary and had had his own bank accounts. Now though, with less money coming in than before and when they are left to rely more on savings, their funds are shared far more equally. The professor’s continued insistence on paying for most of their purchases or meals or visits to museums and the like is now really more just a symbolic gesture, one which Moran is quite content to let him have. Moran, just as Moriarty does, prefers to think that Moriarty remains in control, even if their relationship in almost every sense is a perfectly equal one.

     After Gaillard has been paid, he glances down at the ring on Moriarty’s finger, then towards Moran’s. “You wish to keep them on, or take them off for now? I have boxes for them here.”

     “Moran?” Moriarty queries.

     “I’d like… to keep mine on,” Moran says, thinking that he may never want to take this ring off. It may be just a small, seemingly rather insignificant little piece of gold but it is far, far more valuable to him than the value of the metal itself. Moriarty has, at times during some of their more outré games, had him bound, tied up, restrained, chained, but this… this ties him to the professor more surely than any rope or chain; this little band of gold speaks of a bond between them that in truth needs no physical symbol to make it real, but nonetheless it gives him a delicious warm feeling of reassurance when he glances down at it, then when he looks to the matching ring on Moriarty’s finger - a physical, tangible reminder that he is the professor’s, and that the professor is _his_.

      “Then I shall keep mine on too,” Moriarty says. “Thank you, Monsieur Gaillard.”

     Gaillard finally sees them out with further smiles and hand-shaking, out into the darkening evening. Both Moriarty and Moran have pulled on their gloves again, concealing the gold rings beneath fine leather, but both can still feel the metal around their fingers. Moriarty too finds this thought pleasing, to have this subtle yet obvious sign of his attachment to Moran. The professor may never, unlike Moran, have spoken of love for him but there is a profound bond between them, not one merely of ownership, of treating Moran like some inanimate object to possess and dominate without thought ever for Moran’s feelings, but of deep and abiding affection and regard for his companion. Even with the pair of rings presently out of sight it brings a faint smile to his lips to know that they are there and to reflect on this bond between them.  


	17. Chapter 17

    Only once the pair are back in their hotel room do the rings come to light again as both remove their gloves once more.

     “Well Moran.” After removing the rest of his outer garments, Moriarty beckons Moran closer. Moran slips into his embrace, his body pressing close to Moriarty’s. “You are pleased to have this ring upon your finger?”

     “I am, Professor.”

     “ _Husband_ ,” Moriarty whispers to him, and Moran laughs merrily at this, at how absurd this idea would have seemed to him once, but how good this feels now. Moriarty draws him into a slow, lingering kiss, one carefully controlled so that Moran’s sexual urges do not bubble up and risk causing any awkwardness between them, but one which also conveys deep tenderness and regard.

     “Husband,” Moran repeats after a minute or two of gentle kissing, still grinning at his lover. Once the idea of being married to anyone seemed completely bizarre to him – something other men did but not the virile but solitary Colonel Moran. But this does not sound ridiculous even when he says it himself. In fact it sounds like the most pleasant and fitting thing in the world.

    “Do you mind, that this is not a true wedding ring?”

    “No.” Moran smiles as he glances at the ring on his finger again. “These seem far more fitting for us.”

     Outside a cold Parisian night is settling in, with more fat flakes of white falling from the gathering clouds; the snow forming in small drifts in the darkened streets and blurring the pools of light from the streetlamps as it falls ever thicker and faster. It is pretty enough to look out upon but not a night Moriarty or Moran would wish to venture out into, but then they do not need to do so.

     In here, in what they might justifiably think of as their honeymoon suite, there is warmth and light and comfort; the promise too of a good meal in the hotel restaurant shortly. For now though they need only stand here, held in each other’s arms. Their journey has led them here, into a part of their past yes, but the future is also a journey, one which they both know that they will undertake together. There are still doubts and insecurities on both sides, of course there are, but there is also a new confidence between them; a new sense of certainty that no matter what life decides to throw at them, they will make it through and do so _together_.

      Moriarty drops his left hand, catching Moran’s left, interlacing their fingers, lifting both their hands up so that the matching rings glint in the light of the room. Both regard the gold bands and the engraved letter M upon each for a second or two before they raise their eyes to meet each other’s gaze once more.

    “ _Mine_ ,” Moriarty says, smiling again, his smile as warm as the gleam of the gold.

     Moran grins back at him, a fully relaxed and contented grin, fully reassured now about the relationship between them; wholly certain in his belief that Moriarty has returned to him not merely in body but in mind too; moreover, that the professor intends to remain with him.

     “ _Mine,_ ” Moran says too. “I love you so much, James.” Moriarty smiles at this, and both of them are still smiling as, hands still intertwined, their lips join together once more in a sweet, rather chaste but loving kiss. The professor has his eyes closed during it, Moran cannot help but notice, and he keeps them closed even as he draws back from Moran a degree. They remain holding hands though and Moran can feel how the professor trembles, just a little. “Professor?”

     “I love you too,” Moriarty says, so very quietly that Moran might easily have missed it, but he does not; he hears it clearly; he simply cannot believe that he is not merely imagining things.

     “James? What did…?”

     Moriarty opens his eyes and looks at Moran again. “I love you too, Sebastian,” he says, his voice stronger than before but still slightly hesitant. His gaze does not deviate from Moran’s though now.

     Moran stares at him for a moment in stunned silence before he lets out a sound which seems to be half-laugh, half-sob. He should say something eloquent in response but all he can stammer out is: “I never thought… I didn’t think... I never expected you to ever say that, at least… not in English at any rate.”

     “I do not pretend that I understand romantic feeling still,” Moriarty says, “but… I suppose… in amongst all my doubts, that is one of the few things I could believe with any certainty: that I…” His voice trails off again briefly, and Moran realises keenly just how vulnerable speaking such simple words make the professor feel. Love unspoken is something he can still maintain an illusion of control over; love laid bare leaves him exposed however, and entirely at the mercy of the object of that love.

     Moran though would never exploit such vulnerabilities in the professor. He squeezes Moriarty’s hands again reassuringly. “It’s all right, you don’t have to say-”

     But Moriarty says it again anyway. “That I love you,” he cuts in, and he manages a hesitant smile now and lifts a slightly trembling hand to Moran’s face. With his thumb he wipes away one of the tears that has begun to trickle down Moran’s cheek without the colonel even being aware of it. 

     “God, look at me, bawlin’ like a baby.” Moran moves to scrub away a second tear with the back of his hand, suddenly embarrassed by his behaviour, but Moriarty catches his hand in his.

     “It’s all right.” He draws Moran closer to him, wrapping his arms around him. “Moran, I will not let you down again.”

     “You haven’t let me down,” Moran tells him, his face buried against Moriarty’s neck. “You haven’t, Professor, you haven’t.” He could almost laugh now from the sheer joy he feels surging within him at Moriarty’s verbal admission but it would not seem appropriate somehow.

     “Well then, in that case,” Moriarty says, “I never will let you down. Does that suit you?”

     “Yes Professor, it does.” Moran glances at him, beaming broadly.

    “I regret that the first portion of our… well, let us call it our _journey_ , rather than a holiday, was a somewhat traumatic affair, but for the remainder of it, and for what time we have left here in Paris… I hope this more than makes up for the poor start.”

     Moran though cannot entirely regret everything that occurred, despite all the stress and heartache of visiting Meiringen again, not when it has led them here. “Maybe the first part… it was something we had to do to get here.” He grins now. “To our honeymoon.”

     “Yes, our honeymoon.” Moriarty smiles at him, much less hesitant now; far more warmly and affectionately. “Moran, if there is anything else you’d like to visit while we’re here, anywhere else you wish us to go… you only need to tell me.”

     Moran nuzzles against Moriarty's neck again, kissing him softly under his jaw. “Wherever you want to go, whatever you want to see, that’s fine with me,” he says. “I’m just happy to be here with you.”

    Moriarty draws away from him slightly but retains his hold on Moran’s hand, leading him over to the window. Drawing back the curtain a little he looks out at the falling snow. “Here in Paris?” he asks.

    “No, I mean, well…” Moran looks out beside him. “Yes, in Paris, or wherever, just… by your side; that’s where I want to be.”

     Moriarty covers Moran’s hand with his own as Moran leans gently against him, resting his head on the professor’s shoulder. “Then that’s where you shall be, always,” Moriarty tells Moran, bringing another small, contented smile to Moran’s lips as he speaks. “My dearest Sebastian.”

     They stand for a time in peaceful silence, watching through the cold, damp glass as the snow continues to fall over the city of light. The falling snow and the clouds above seem to soften everything, changing the texture even of the darkness. The snowfall is not heavy though; perhaps the snow may have gone by morning, melted away. Each flake is so beautiful but so fleeting and ephemeral, unable to endure for long. Some things are simply not meant to last.

     Moran glances at Moriarty’s face again. Noting the slight movement Moriarty looks back at him and gives him a soft smile, to which Moran responds with another grin. Standing there close to his companion, his lover, his _husband_ , their hands entwined;  matching rings upon their fingers, Moran believes now though that this… their relationship, their _love_ … this is one thing that will last.


End file.
